


This Burden Came To Me

by lapsus_calami



Series: No One Chooses This Life [8]
Category: Supernatural, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: ALL THE ANGST, Angst, Demonic Possession, Demons, Gen, Hunter Stiles Stilinski, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, bobby has unresolved issues too, everyone has unresolved issues when it comes to demons, john's finally back guys, stiles has unresolved issues, there's a devil down in georgia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-02
Updated: 2016-10-26
Packaged: 2018-07-11 17:15:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 36,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7062073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lapsus_calami/pseuds/lapsus_calami
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A devil's come down to Georgia, and John is intent on tracking it down. Stiles wants nothing to do with a possible demon hunt, but refusing to go would raise too many questions so he finds himself working alongside the others to track down the last creature he wants to ever encounter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're on to part eight, y'all!

**This Burden Came To Me**

“Bullshit.”

Stiles’ tone was cocky; in fact John would almost describe it as gleeful. In spite of the kid looking like he’d just gone six rounds with the wrong end of a hammer, his mood seemed vastly improved from when John last saw him. He wondered, absently, if the mood would remain once he realized John was loitering in the doorway or if it would be like it had been with Sam. He’d lost count of the number of times he came back to a motel and watched his boys carefree and happy, a mood that had always soured immediately as soon as they both realized John was back.

Dean just arched an eyebrow at Stiles' assertion, tapping his index finger on the table. He held Stiles’ challenging gaze for several seconds, entirely oblivious to John’s presence beyond the doorway, before slowly reaching out to flip the top three cards. It was two threes and a six. Stiles smirked pushing the stack of cards towards Dean who sighed and scooped them up into his hand.

Stiles immediately set down three cards saying airily, “Three fours.”

“I didn’t hear you come in,” a voice said behind him, startling him away from Dean’s glowering countenance.

John repressed a jump mentally reprimanding himself for getting distracted. He stepped back from the doorway turning quickly as Bobby approached him holding three beers. He cleared his throat. “Not surprised. Your damn dog wasn’t outside to bark.”

Bobby huffed. “Rumsfield is in with the boys.”

“Bobby,” Dean called from the other room. “Stiles says three fours.”

The older hunter pursed his lips for a moment. “I call bullshit,” he said finally raising his voice just a bit to be heard in the other room.

“Then you’re the proud owner of three more cards, old man,” Stiles said tone lilting towards singsong. Bobby rolled his eyes. He brushed past John dropping off the beers and putting down his own cards—two fives which neither Dean nor Stiles protested—before telling the boys to take a few turns without him.

“I see you’re putting their time to good use,” John observed as Bobby exited the room again.

“Two sixes,” Dean said.

As before Stiles immediately countered with, “Bullshit.”

“Seriously?” Dean complained sounding exceptionally aggrieved. “Again?”

“You heard me,” the younger boy said and John could hear the smug grin in his words. “I call bullshit.”

Bobby shrugged pulling the fridge open once more. “The game does teach good bluffing skills. And Stiles is kicking Dean’s ass in there,” he said letting the fridge fall shut and handing John a beer. “Dean’s finally met his match, and he ain’t happy about it.”

John sipped his drink thoughtfully. Dean had been a reigning champion for years, beating both Bobby and Sam with ease most times. Even John had found himself routinely challenged by Dean’s ability to bluff with the best and read a person’s tells.

“I’d pay money to see you and Stiles play,” Bobby continued and John snorted.

“I think Stiles and I lie to each other enough without making a game of it,” he said.

Bobby chuckled. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”

John took another pull from his beer leaning against the counter. “So what did you really have them doing while I was gone?”

“I assume you mean why does he look like shit warmed over?”

John shrugged, more or less. Stiles looked worse, but Dean wasn’t without his own tired slant to his shoulders or dark circles beneath his eyes. They were both in good spirits though, which didn’t seem to match the weariness clinging to them.

“Stiles ain’t sleeping. More than usual,” Bobby added when John arched an eyebrow. “Been keeping Dean up a good bit too I suppose. Nightmares, you know?”

John did know. No one in this line of work was immune to nightmares, and Stiles had already shown a propensity towards them. “From Missouri?” he asked, pushing down on the sharp spike of guilt.

Bobby pursed his lips, and set his beer aside. “Nah,” he said shaking his head. “Least not entirely. They went on a hunt. Just a spirit, nothing special. Whole thing went a little sideways, but they worked it out in the end.”

John straightened against the counter, a hard edge digging into his hip. “You let them go on a solo hunt?” he demanded. “And didn’t think to mention it to me on the phone earlier?”

“It isn’t really a solo hunt if they go together,” Bobby pointed out with a shrug, offering no apologies for withholding information when he’d called a few days ago to fill John in on Argent. “And they handled it fine.”

“That’s your definition of handling it fine?” John asked jerking his head towards the other room.

“They’re alive aren’t they?”

John bit back a growl and forced himself to count to three before asking, “What, exactly, went sideways on them?”

“It was a nasty little spirit,” Bobby explained taking a swig of beer. “The kind that dredges up memories, twists things around. There were a hundred ninety-nine suicides at the motel. Dean was pretty worried about Stiles doing…something.” Though Bobby didn’t specify the implication weighed heavily in the air between them, a telltale undertone of concern overshadowing his words. “Whatever he saw, it tore him up good. Dean’s shaken too though he won’t admit it, and he’s not saying what he saw either.”

John’s mind was all too happy to supply the many possibilities. Monsters in the dark, hunts gone wrong, himself, Sam, Mary. Dean’s life, short as it has been, was already filled with endless sources of nightmares.

“They’ll be fine,” Bobby said after a moment of silence. John sipped again at his beer. “Just need some time to get everything sorted.”

John sighed, scrubbing a hand over his beard. “Well, I’m afraid they won’t get much.”

* * *

“So you don’t know what it is?” Stiles asked, tugging the files closer to his seat to read over some of the articles himself. John knew them by heart; there were several, each detailing a number of strange occurrences from a small town in Georgia. Crop failures, electrical storms, cattle mutilations, a string of murders. All omens pointing the presence of a demon. 

“Not for sure,” John said watching the boy carefully and weighing his reactions. As John had predicted, Stiles’ good mood had vanished as soon as he saw John. But rather than be angry, as he’d expected, Stiles seemed to have settled into something of acceptance with John. Resigned acceptance, maybe, but acceptance all the same. John could work with that. “But all the signs point to it being demonic activity. It’s likely someone in that town is possessed.”

Dean frowned and Stiles jerked as if he’d been slapped glancing between Bobby and John with wide eyes. “I thought those were, like, super rare?” he asked.

“They are,” John said sharing a contemplative look with Bobby. Stiles’ reaction to the prospect of a demonic possession was unexpected but not entirely abnormal for someone confronting the idea of actual monsters from Hell. “Which is why it’s important for us to track this one down before it moves on.”

Stiles nodded slowly, eyeing the articles with renewed interest. “To exorcise it?”

“No,” John said, letting silence reign for a moment before continuing. “To interrogate it.”

Stiles blinked, licking his lips. “You want to catch it?”

“I want to talk to it.”

“ _Why_?” Stiles asked sounding particularly disbelieving.

“You think it’ll know something about what killed mom?” Dean said quietly before John had a chance to answer Stiles' question himself. Stiles tore his gaze from John to stare at Dean instead something akin to understanding flashing across his face.

John inclined his head. “It’s a possibility.”

Dean nodded, mouth thinning into a determined line. “When do we leave?”

Stiles licked his lips dropping his gaze back down to the file, hands clenched into fists on the tabletop. But he didn't say anything. 

"We leave at first light."

* * *

Stiles watched the countryside roll by, wishing the soothing river of green grass would do more to calm his nerves. It didn’t, but Stiles wasn’t sure anything would at this point. He was headed, somewhat involuntarily, to a place where John was certain a demon resided. And while Stiles was relatively sure this demon followed Christian mythology rather than Japanese, he didn’t feel any better about the prospect of encountering it.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Bobby asked drawing Stiles’ attention back from the rolling plains. “You’re practically vibrating out of your seat there. Any particular reason?”

Stiles frowned clasping his hands together to still the erratic tapping and made a concentrated effort to stop his bouncing leg. Visibly losing his composure over this hunt would probably give Bobby and the others all sorts of wrong ideas so he should work on locking his feelings down, but that was a task easier said than accomplished. Just thinking about encountering the demon caused something oily and unpleasant to writhe in his chest.

“Stiles?”

“Just nervous is all.”

Bobby hummed thoughtfully, like he had expected such an answer. “Demons are unsettling. Especially your first encounter. It can be…” he trailed off, and Stiles filled in his own adjectives. Awful, horrendous, life altering, terrifying, destructive.

“The point is you’re not alone,” Bobby continued after a moment. “It’s best to deal with demons in a group, you keep each other safe that way.”

“The idea of them just doesn’t sit well with me,” Stiles said.

Bobby flicked his gaze to Stiles for a moment before looking back to the road and the Impala they were following. “They do tend to shake one’s faith a little,” he admitted, a bit awkwardly. “But I guess you can’t believe in the bad without also believing in the good.”

Stiles frowned. “It’s not, I’m not…religious,” he said. “I just don’t like the idea of not being in control.”

“Not to speak ill of John's abilities,” Bobby said, “but it’s unlikely we’ll even encounter the demon. John’s been tracking these things for the last twenty years. Often, they’re already gone by the time we arrive.”

Stiles licked his lips thinking it through. “The omens he tracks show up after the fact,” he concluded. “They’re a footprint.”

Bobby nodded. “For the most part.”

They lapsed into silence for a moment. Stiles knew Bobby meant his words to be reassuring, and the prospect that he might get through the hunt without having to encounter a demon did reassure him a little. But he didn’t think anything other than driving the opposite direction would help settle him at this point.

“Did you ever meet one?” he asked finally. “Did you ever meet someone who was possessed?”

Bobby flexed his hands around the steering wheel, blowing out a low breath. “Once," he said. "Long time ago.”

There was a deeper story there; Stiles recognized his own tells on the other man. Tight grip, averted gaze, determinedly level tone. He wouldn’t pry, not if the older hunter didn’t want him too, but he was curious. Curious if the hunter had ever met someone like him before, someone who’d survived a possession.

“What happened to them?”

For a long moment Stiles thought Bobby wouldn’t answer. Then he cleared his throat roughly and said, “She died.”

* * *

Dean slung his duffle on the bed closest to the door as soon as he walked into the motel room. He rolled his shoulders, twisting his head from side to side in an effort to loosen up the muscles after the fifteen-hour car ride. Stiles trailed behind him setting his own bag on the other bed with more reservation before tugging at the cuffs of his coat and casting a speculative glance around the room. In spite of it pushing seventy degrees, he was clad in a long sleeve shirt, his usual red hoodie, and his coat. Dean thought he’d be roasting by now, but it actually looked like he was shivering.

“You okay?” Dean asked, arching an inquisitive eyebrow. Stiles had been subdued since Dad filled them in on the possible demon hunt, and, while Dean supposed it might just be because the idea of something forcing its way inside and controlling your every move was unsettling, he thought there might be more to it. Unfortunately Dean wouldn’t have been able to talk to Stiles about it in the car with Dad and the other boy had elected to ride down with Bobby anyway.

Stiles nodded, sitting on the bed next to his bag and folding his legs under himself. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not getting sick are you?”

Stiles looked startled by the question and shook his head. “No?” he said something like a question pulling the word up on the end.

“You’re wearing like three coats,” Dean pointed out.

“I’m just a little cold,” Stiles replied picking at the cuff of his hoodie.

Dean figured it had more to do with comfort than actually feeling cold, but he let the answer pass unimpeded. There was a knock at the door, his dad’s standard knocking pattern. Dean tugged the door open unsurprised at the two bags of fast-food Dad shoved at him.

“Eat and sleep,” Dad said gruffly. “We’re getting an early start tomorrow.”

Dean nodded resisting the urge to salute lazily. “Yes, sir.”

McDonald’s was far from his favorite, but Dean had to admit it smelled appetizing to his empty stomach. Dad hadn't so much as wanted to stop to take a leak on the way down, let alone get some food though they did grab some snacks at a convenience store when they refueled the cars. Immediately digging in he stuffed a handful of fries in his mouth before turning to toss one of the bags at Stiles. The younger boy caught it with a bit of trouble and frowned.

“I’m not hungry.”

Dean swallowed, coughing when some of the not so well chewed fries caught a bit in his throat. “Eat anyway,” he said once he could speak. “You'll need the fuel for tomorrow.”

Stiles’ frown deepened but he obligingly stuck a few fries in his mouth chewing slowly. He picked at his food gradually while Dean inhaled his own, and Dean figured Stiles fiddled with more than he actually ate but at least he was eating something.

Dean balled his empty bag up once he was done, tossing it into the trashcan across the room while Stiles picked apart his sandwich eating mostly the bun and nothing else. The bag landed in the trash with a satisfying thud. Stiles finished his dinner with a single minded deliberateness like chewing each bite had to be consciously decided upon as Dean puttered around the room trying to settle his mind enough to go to sleep despite it being far earlier than he usually went to bed. He’d long since mastered the skill of sleeping whenever he had the time, but he needed to be in the right mindset for it and fifteen hours in a car with Dad tended to wind Dean up rather than down. Not to mention he was still struggling a little with the hunt in California, and the hour-long lecture he'd gotten about it hadn't helped any.

Surprisingly Stiles seemed to be following suit, tossing his still mostly full bag of food in the trash and shedding his heavy coat and shoes before curling up on his bed after pulling his pillow from his bag. He hadn't been sleeping well since California either, and Dean was impressed he even seemed willing to try. He turned away from Dean, lying on his side facing the wall. Dean took it as a sign of trust now that Stiles didn’t mind sleeping with his back to Dean when at the start he’d always preferred sleeping with his back to a wall.

Dean flopped on his own bed, stretching to switch off the lamp and cast the room into hazy shadows. He could still make out Stiles in the faint glow from the street lamps outside as he shuffled around to get comfortable eventually ending up on his stomach with the pillow scrunched up beneath his head. He let his gaze rest heavy on Stiles’ form wondering if the other boy was actually trying to sleep or just pretending. Stiles hadn’t been sleeping easy lately even when compared to his own standards, and Dean was slightly worried whatever was bugging him about this hunt would result in even less sleep. Dean himself never really had trouble sleeping. He had always been a light sleeper, easily disturbed by sound or movement, but he never had much trouble with nightmares. Sleep had always been an escape for him; his life was the nightmare not his dreams.

Sam had been the exact opposite; he slept like the dead and apparently produced horror movies in his head. Hell, half the stuff that boy cooked up in his dreams as a kid almost scared Dean, not that he had ever let Sammy know that. But there had been a period of time after that disaster of a Christmas when Sam found out about all the things that went bump in the night where Sam spent months either screaming himself awake or crawling in bed with Dean. Dean hadn’t minded. They had often shared a bed anyway and dealing with Sammy’s boney elbows digging into his stomach or being smacked in the face was preferable to watching the kid exhaust himself because he was afraid to sleep or trying to calm him down after a particularly bad nightmare.

So it had become a sort of routine, them sharing a bed. When Sammy outgrew the nightmares several months later there wasn’t really a need to share a bed but they did anyway. Sam was young enough that it was still cool to share a bed with Dean, and Dean appreciated the closeness and ease at which he could keep an eye on his little brother. Dad had just appreciated not needing to pay for an extra cot. When Sam turned twelve and sharing was no longer cool they started getting the cot again. Dean would never admit it out loud, but he missed the peacefulness that came with sleeping next to someone.

Stiles was somewhere between the two of them. When he slept he did so lightly, but Dean was pretty sure the stuff he cooked up in his nightmares could give Sammy’s a run for their money. Aside from literally screaming himself awake on that hunt in Oklahoma, Dean didn’t have much to go on in terms of knowing for sure the kid had significant trouble with nightmares, but anyone who was that reluctant to sleep had more of a reason than being an insomniac or stubborn.

The whimper woke him up at three fifty-seven, the green lights of the alarm clock glaring at him from the nightstand, and it took him a minute to even figure out what it was that roused him. Stiles whimpered again, and Dean was out of his bed and by Stiles’ in seconds acting on long dormant instincts.

“Stiles,” Dean whispered, hesitating to touch the other boy and biting his lip as Stiles moaned and twisted beneath the sheets, breaths going shallow and frantic. “Hey, Stiles. Wake up, buddy, it’s just a bad dream.”

Stiles whined, low and at the back of his throat, tossing his head to the side. “No, no,” he breathed, barely audible or understandable. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to.”

“Stiles,” Dean said, speaking a little louder and gently shaking the kid’s shoulder. “Hey, come on, wake up.”

Stiles jerked, clutching at the bed sheets and blinking owlishly at Dean in the dim light. “Please,” Stiles begs shifting away and obviously still not fully awake. “Don’t hurt me. Please.”

The plaintive plea shook something inside Dean, fanned that tiny flame of anger at the other hunters, at _anyone_ , in Stiles’ past that hurt him. “I would never,” he said keeping his tone calm and soothing, reaching out to grasp Stiles’ wrists gently and swiping his thumb over the pulse pint. “You got to know that by now, Stiles. You’re practically an honorary Winchester.”

“I didn’t mean to. I didn’t want to,” Stiles said, voice weak and thin. Strained beneath the weight of the emotions behind the words.

“It’s okay,” Dean assured. “It’s not your fault. It’s okay.”

Stiles squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head slowly either in response to Dean or whatever nightmare was still clouding his mind. It took Dean a moment to realize he was crying, tears leaking from the corner of his eyes and breaths hitching.

“Hey,” Dean said, shifting closer on the bed. “Hey, you’re okay, Stiles. It was just a dream. You’re okay.”

Stiles continued shaking his head, pulling his hands from Dean’s to press the heel of his palms against his eyes. Dean just watched him for a minute, feeling a pang somewhere deep in his chest as he listened to the harsh breaths. Stiles curled up in the middle of the bed pulling away from Dean and nearly compressing himself into something half his normal size. Dean still wasn’t sure if Stiles really knew where he was or if he was still lost amongst whatever memories were undoubtedly making up his nightmares.

“Okay,” Dean said more to himself than Stiles. He hadn’t shared a bed with anyone without at least the intention of having sex for over six years, but it didn’t feel any different than when Dean was sixteen and curling around Sammy to keep the monsters and demons at bay. He didn’t know exactly what monsters lived in Stiles’ dreams, but he hoped the presence of another person would work as well for Stiles as it did for Sam.

Stiles didn’t relax at first, stiff and wound tight as Dean pulled him over, settling him against his chest and running a soothing hand over the fabric of the soft red hoodie Stiles was still wearing. Dean didn’t know how long Stiles cried but eventually the whimpers faded away and he went quiet and slack in Dean’s arms, breaths soft and regular. Dean sighed and settled himself more comfortably in the bed. Stiles was a warm and heavy weight against his side, hands twisted loosely in the fabric of Dean’s t-shirt. It was pleasant and comforting, and, despite the interruption, Dean slept better than he had since California.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> Next chapter to be posted **June 12th** and you can follow me on [tumblr](http://little-red-and-his-wolves.tumblr.com)!


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A devil's come down to Georgia, and John is intent on tracking it down. Stiles wants nothing to do with a possible demon hunt, but refusing to go would raise too many questions so he finds himself working alongside the others to track down the last creature he wants to ever encounter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here we are as promised on Sunday though far later than initially planned. I apologize for that and thank you all profusely for waiting!

**This Burden Came To Me**

When Dean woke at the ungodly hour of just before dawn he was alone in the bed. He frowned, puzzled, because no one had been able to sneak out of bed with him since he was a child. Dean tended to wake at the slightest shift in the room, courtesy of extremely honed instincts from years of hunting. Then again, he had been pretty exhausted, the hunt at the Glen Capri having more of an impact than Dean liked to admit even to himself.

He shrugged passing it off as him being more tired than usual. He wondered for a second where Stiles was before the squeak of someone turning the knob on the bathroom sink and the sound of rushing water let him know. He stretched, groaning a little as his back popped and began to get ready to meet his dad and Bobby for breakfast

He was lacing up his shoes when Stiles finally emerged from the bathroom. The younger boy glanced in his direction then immediately skirted his gaze away ducking his head. Odd, but entirely not surprising. Dean just smiled at him then took his turn in the bathroom, taking care of business and quickly brushing his teeth. When he came out Stiles was shifting nervously in the middle of the room alternating his weight from one foot to the other and pressing his hands deep into his pockets.

“What, uh, what happened last night?” Stiles asked gesturing vaguely in the direction of the bed.

Dean shrugged grabbing his coat off the back of the chair and pulling it on. “You had a nightmare,” he said simply.

Stiles bit his lip looking like he wanted to bring the subject fully out and let it lie in the shadows at the same time. “Yeah,” he said nibbling at his thumb. “I know. I understand that part. What I don’t understand is why I woke up with you spooning me.”

“Because you had a nightmare,” Dean reiterated keeping a carefully moderated tone.

“That answer doesn’t make as much sense as you seem to think it does,” Stiles said sounding a little desperate. Totally not the feeling Dean was hoping to inspire. “I had a nightmare so you crawled into bed with me?”

“Look, Stiles, my brother used to get really bad nightmares,” Dean explained, brain tripping over the subject of Sam only very briefly as Dean determinedly pushed the memory of him lying in the parking lot away. “Like aliens bursting out of your stomach and the devil’s hand emerging from a swamp to kill your entire family kind of nightmares. We shared a bed until I was sixteen.”

Stiles remained silent, teeth worrying insistently at this lower lip. Dean flipped the collar of his coat up, shrugging the leather more comfortably over his shoulders like a shield against the suddenly emotionally charged feeling in the room.

“It helped him and I figured it would help you,” he finished bluntly. “And I was right. So can we go now? We’re supposed to meet Dad for breakfast.”

Stiles just stared at him like he couldn’t quite comprehend the idea that someone would care enough to share a bed for the express purpose of helping him sleep. Eventually he nodded, blinking rapidly before saying, “Right, yeah, let’s go.”

* * *

Stiles sipped at the coffee in his cup smiling up at the waitress and shaking his head when she asked if he’d like more. She returned the gesture and moved away topping off Bobby’s and the other man’s cups before returning to the counter. His coffee was lukewarm, but Stiles wasn’t really focused on drinking it or even enjoying the beverage. He was focused instead on listening to the conversation taking place between the older hunter and Charles Westmoreland, husband to the late Cynthia Westmoreland who was one of the eight recent murder victims and father to Martin Westmoreland who was arrested for second degree murder.

Dean and John were off playing FBI agents somewhere while Stiles was tailing Bobby who was posing as a reporter. While he didn’t entirely appreciate being sidelined it was better than being stuck in a hotel room. Not to mention that Stiles was reasonably sure being stuck in a motel room would result in him having a complete breakdown, so even if all he was doing was listening and drinking crappy coffee he was still happy enough. Well, as happy as he could be in a town brimming with negative energy and a dark presence. Even if he had doubted John’s ability to track demons based on the visceral sense of doom that had washed over him as they crossed the town line would have dispelled it immediately.

It hovered on the edge of his vision, crept over his mind like a shadow of a threat. A nervous energy was thrumming through him, a nearly undeniable urge to flee. But he sat in the diner, acted like he was reading the newspaper and watching cars roll on by while actually listening to the horror story unfolding two tables over, and he didn’t run.

A loving son suddenly turned vicious, attacking his mother in a heated rage out of the blue, beating her to death with a baseball bat on the floor of their living room. Stiles stomach roiled just thinking about it, and he was glad the only thing he’d managed to choke down at breakfast had been a piece and a half of plain toast.

Charles murmured something too low for Stiles to catch over the fluctuating swell of noise from other patrons at the diner, twisting his coffee cup between large hands. He and Bobby exchanged a few more words, and then Charles was leaving.

Stiles watched him go, drained the rest of his lukewarm coffee and slid from his booth to join Bobby. The older hunter glanced up at him as he sat down offering a grim smile. There was something a little haunted in his gaze, something Stiles recognized from the mirror.

“Guess John was right, huh?” Stiles said.

“Guess so.”

“You don’t…you don’t think it’s still in Martin, do you?” Stiles asked after a moment.

Bobby shook his head. “Unlikely. Not since he’s been arrested and is in custody.” He paused, sipping at his coffee and running an assessing gaze over Stiles. “Do you want to come with me to talk to him?”

His throat tightened, something like fear blooming through him, but Stiles nodded raising a hand to his mouth to bite at his thumb while his leg bounced beneath the table. Bobby didn’t fail to notice his reluctance, raising one eyebrow as he asked, “You sure?”

Stiles wasn’t sure, he wasn’t sure at all. He most definitely did not want to meet someone like him, someone who had lived through being possessed, someone who knew what it felt like to be violated in one of the most intimate ways. But he nodded anyway. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

* * *

Stiles could see it.

Saw it the moment he laid eyes on the kid in the visiting room. A dark stain, almost palpable in shape, hovering around the kid, a leftover reminder of the evil that had resided within for however a short amount of time. It made him wonder what kind of stain was left on him and if Martin could see it.

From the way Martin’s eyes narrowed then widened Stiles figured he could. He didn’t say anything, even as Stiles and Bobby sat down across from him. Even as they made their fake introductions and spun their fake story. Stiles didn’t know if it was out of fear—of Stiles or of himself—or discretion for a shared trauma.

There was no hesitation from Martin to share his side of the story honestly, no declaration that Stiles and Bobby wouldn’t believe him, and Stiles could tell that surprised the older hunter somewhat. He didn’t offer any explanation though, just listened silently as Bobby asked the questions and Martin relived his nightmare.

Stiles didn’t want to listen, knew well enough first hand how it felt to be sidelined in his own head, to watch as his own hands slaughtered others. It wasn’t a pleasant feeling, wasn’t one he wanted to empathize with, especially when Martin had the added horror of actually murdering his mother. Stiles’ insides twisted at the thought, let alone the tearful and detailed account Martin was capable of giving. Kid was going to need nine different kinds of therapy to make it through everything with a semblance of sanity.

Even with that slim possibility Martin would still have deal with the legal fallout of his actions under possession, something Stiles had never actually faced himself all thanks to his father. Martin would forever be branded as a murderer regardless of the fact that it had never truly been him.

“All right,” Bobby said drawing Stiles from his thoughts. “I think that’s everything we need, Martin. Thank you for your time.”

As they went to stand Martin’s hand shot out with a rattle of chains, cold fingers curling almost painfully hard around Stiles’ wrist. Stiles froze and resisted the urge to yank his hand away, shaking his head minutely as Bobby tensed.

“Westmoreland,” a guard barked from across the room. “No contact.”

Martin let go and Stiles waved a hand at the guard to indicate everything was okay. “Go ahead, Bobby,” he said meeting Martin’s gaze as he eased back into his seat. “I’ll meet you outside.”

Bobby frowned but nodded leaving Stiles behind as he left the visiting room. Stiles regarded Martin quietly a moment then said, “What do you see?”

Martin drew his eyebrows together.

“When you look at me,” Stiles clarified. “What do you see?”

“I don’t know,” Martin said slowly. “It’s…like a shadow. Of a form. Can’t always see it, sometimes it fades away, but it’s always kinda there.”

Stiles nodded, unsurprised at the answer. “What does it look like?”

“It looks like, like a fox,” the kid whispered.

Stiles shivered, dropping his gaze to the table and taking careful breaths through his nose. He’d known there was a lasting mark, Missouri had said as much though she hadn’t mentioned a fox shadow, but hearing confirmation from someone who had experienced the same thing still hit hard.

“And me?” Martin asked, timid and afraid. “What do you see?”

Stiles sighed, kneading at closed eyes before looking at the kid again. It was faint, very faint, the shadow that was wrapped around him, enclosing the kid like a shield or perhaps a prison. Larger than Martin’s frame it dwarfed him, alternately fading away and obscuring Martin’s face behind a veil of grey. Stiles bit his lip watching as the shadow sneered, baring sharp teeth beneath endlessly dark eyes, translucent skin stretched tight over bony features. It was terrifying, even if Stiles knew it was nothing but an echo.

“Scott?” Martin said using the fake name Stiles had given earlier. It caused a twinge of sorrow to resonate in Stiles chest.

“A corpse,” he said. “I see a corpse.”

* * *

 Dean smiled, giving the eager and young officer an appreciative once over as he accepted the files. He flicked his gaze down to the man's name badge saying, “Well thank you, Officer Taylor.”

“Ben,” the young man said brightly before blushing slightly. “Ah, that is, I mean…my name, it’s Ben. You can call me Ben.”

Dean widened his smile deliberately brushing his fingers along Ben’s hand. “Thank you, Ben,” he said. “I appreciate you taking the time to get them.”

“Oh, it was no trouble,” Ben said shuffling his feet as he glanced nervously between Dean and Dad who was still speaking with the chief. “Anything to help a fellow lawman.”

“Well, hopefully these will be very helpful,” Dean said flipping through the files quickly and noting with satisfaction the amount of omens he caught just simply glancing through.

Ben nodded, somewhat jerkily, in a way that reminded Dean of a puppy that was overly excited to please. “Sure. Just, uh, let me know if you need anything else.”

Dean snapped the files shut and reached out to give Ben’s shoulder an appreciative squeeze. “Will do,” he said already moving towards Dad. “Thanks again, buddy.”

“Anytime,” Ben called as Dean left him behind, moving across the station to where his Dad was bidding the police chief goodbye. Dad and the chief exchanged a few more words before the chief moved off, walking back towards her office. Dad watched her go for a moment before turning to Dean, brows furrowed and permanent frown etched across his mouth.

“Not getting distracted, are you?” Dad asked, something vaguely accusing coloring his tone as he jerked his chin towards Ben.

Dean scoffed, glancing back over his own shoulder to the young officer as they left the precinct. “Of course not.”

“Good,” Dad said. “Because I need you focused, not chasing down your latest conquest.”

“I’m focused, Dad. Ben was just getting me those files you asked for,” Dean said waving the small stack of files for demonstration.

“Are you?” Dad asked again when they reached the car, making no motion to get in and just eyeing Dean seriously from across the roof.

Dean frowned, hand paused on the door handle. “Am I what?”

“Focused.”

Dean sighed resisting the urge to roll his eyes looking to the files once more as a suitable excuse to not meet his father’s gaze. “I’m completely focused.”

“Bobby told me about the hunt in California,” Dad said abruptly, and Dean jerked his head up in surprise.

“Dad,” he started but was cut off.

“You know you’re not supposed to go on hunts alone,” Dad said.

Dean yanked the car door open, tossing the files onto the seat before protesting, “I wasn’t alone.”

“Stiles doesn’t count,” Dad stated gruffly “You’re safer hunting with people you can trust.”

Dean blinked, cocking his head to the side. “You still don’t trust Stiles? After all this time?”

“Of course not, and if you and Bobby bothered to pull your heads out of your asses you wouldn’t either,” Dad said. “I feel badly for the kid, I recognize that he’s gone through a lot, but something doesn’t add up about him and I don’t trust people I don’t understand.”

Dean pursed his lips, dropping his gaze to the shiny black of the car roof. Sure there were a lot of oddities and even more unanswered questions, but Dean's instincts were good and he trusted himself which meant he trusted Stiles.

“No more solo hunts with Stiles,” Dad said. “And no loosing your focus on this hunt. Understood?”

Dean gave the man a curt nod. “Yes, sir,” he said sliding into the car. After a moment Dad joined him. Dean worried his bottom lip quietly as Dad pulled out of the lot and headed back towards their motel rooms. “Hey, dad, can you drop me off at the library?” he asked ignoring the slight look of confusion that flashed across Dad's face. “There’s something I need to look up quick.”

* * *

Dean sneezed cursing once again the dustiness of old books at a library. There were few things he hated in this world more than he hated research. Give him a good old pursuit through a dark woods any day of the week instead of tiny print in a centuries old book. 

This one looked promising though, an old Christian text that Dean vaguely recognized as a book Bobby had in his own library. Dean thumbed through scanning the images as they flashed by. Partway through he found what he was looking for, an illustration of the same circle Stiles had drawn on the pavement at the Glen Capri. 

It was a banishing ritual as Stiles had said, but Dean had never seen anything like it. The print around it was small, slightly smudged and difficult to read. His Latin wasn't the best, didn't hold a candle to Sam's proficiency,  but he puzzled out enough of it to know that it shouldn't have worked. 

There were things hunters could do. Bless water and harness the power of certain sigils. Then there were things hunters couldn't do, things that one needed to be a priest or a witch or a psychic to accomplish, things that required some sort of power. 

Dean frowned at the page looking around to make sure he was alone before slipping from the archival room to the copier outside. He pulled the book open wider, bending the spine until the tome laid flat then pressed it under the scanner and ran off a copy before returning the book to its shelf. 

He scanned over the page again as he left, folding it and tucking it in his wallet for safe keeping once he was on his way to the motel. One more unanswered question.

* * *

“You’re very quiet,” Dean murmured, flicking his gaze up to Stiles across the table from him. Dad had split the stack of files Ben had given them, Bobby and Dad taking half while Stiles and Dean got the other. Dean and Stiles had split it again each looking through a manageably small stack of their own.

Stiles glanced up at him quickly before looking back down flipping to the next page in the file he was reading “This case is difficult,” he said. “No need for distractions.”

“I’ve always felt that a difficult case needs a lot of distractions,” Dean said. “That way you don’t get too bogged down in all the shit that's happening.”

“A kid murdered his own mother,” Stiles said bluntly. “This guy killed his pregnant wife. Another woman slaughtered all four of her dogs. And this guy killed his husband and their three children before shooting himself."

"See, you're dwelling already," Dean said. He sighed at Stiles faint glare and stoic silence. "What's got you so wrapped up in this?"

Stiles turned another page, not even looking up as Dean prodded again. 

"Stiles?"

"Because these people didn't have a choice, Dean," he said eventually. "Something evil came in here and tore their lives apart and I...I just, I know what it feels like to not have a choice." 

Dean didn't reply, didn't know how to reply, got the vague feeling Stiles was talking about more than his encounters with other hunters. 

"I want to find this thing," Stiles said. "I do. But I'm also terrified because something that's capable of all this?" he said gesturing to the files on the table. "I don't want to meet something like this."

"We're in this together," Dean said trying to sound reassuring even though Stiles' words chilled him to his core. "We won't let anything happen to you."

Stiles gave him a faint smile that looked more sad than anything. "It's not me I'm worried about."

* * *

 Later when Dean settled into bed around two-thirty he felt a heavy gaze on him. Sure enough when he twisted to look at Stiles, the other boy was still bent over his files at the table reading them for the millionth time and watching Dean conspicuously out of the corner of his eye.

Dean didn’t comment, simply rearranged his pillow and found a comfortable position. Stiles was still watching him when he clicked his bedside lamp off and he almost wished he could see the kid’s face when he half mumbled into his pillow, “Join me whenever you’re ready.”

Stiles didn’t reply; Dean didn’t expect him to.

He didn’t know what time Stiles finally switched his own light off, didn’t wake enough to check the clock. Only raised the covers and pulled Stiles close when he slid in beneath them grinning slightly when he felt Stiles relax against him, forehead pressed against his collarbone.

Hopefully, in spite of the horrors they'd both heard about today, they would get a few hours of peace. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual I'm going to aim for **June 26th** but we'll see how it goes because I'm working everyday until June 26th. 
> 
> Thanks for reading, thanks for all your comments, every single one means a lot to me. As always you can find me on [tumblr](http://little-red-and-his-wolves.tumblr.com)!


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A devil's come down to Georgia, and John is intent on tracking it down. Stiles wants nothing to do with a possible demon hunt, but refusing to go would raise too many questions so he finds himself working alongside the others to track down the last creature he wants to ever encounter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently, I am an on-call chauffeur today which is why this is up two hours later than I planned to. At any rate, here is the third chapter. Finally. 
> 
> Enjoy!

**This Burden Came To Me**

“You’re sure this is the ritual he used?” Bobby asked over his cup of coffee, squinting down at the creased paper spread over the table between them. He and Dean were having a quick cup of coffee without John or Stiles. Bobby had been puzzled when Dean had volunteered the two of them to grab breakfast for the rest, but given the subject the younger man had broached Bobby couldn’t say he was all that surprised.

Dean rolled his eyes. “Yes, I’m sure. I think even I’m qualified to recognize a circle on the ground in blood.”

Bobby huffed but refrained from returning a sarcastic response in kind. Dean was more than capable of correctly identifying rituals; in spite of the oblivious persona the boy frequently promoted Bobby knew Dean had an exceptionally observant mind and a keen ability to recognize patterns even if he didn’t know exactly what they meant.

“It’s just this is an incredibly complex ritual, Dean,” he said tapping the image. Bobby himself had never seen it successfully performed. While the circle itself was deceptively simple, the ritual required a steady and practiced hand for the accompanying gestures.

Dean frowned turning the paper around to consider the image again himself. “It doesn’t look that complicated.”

“It is,” Bobby insisted. He knew exactly what book this particular ritual came from. It was one he’d collected from his travels in Europe from a group of monks happy to have a restless spirit laid to rest. The ritual was also one that was mostly useless for him and other hunters namely because it was designed for people with a little more oomph than he or any other hunter typically possessed. “In fact, I don’t think Stiles should have been able to use this,” he said, then paused cutting his gaze up to Dean; the younger hunter was considering him nonplussed, expression carefully arranged to give away nothing. “But you already knew that.”

Dean sighed refolding the paper slowly and returning it to his wallet. “I wanted a second opinion,” he admitted tucking his wallet away and taking a sip of his coffee as he glanced out over the street. “Let’s say he did use this one. What would that mean? Who’s capable of using this ritual?”

Bobby pursed his lips a moment in thought. “Well, it’s from the Christian order so priests or monks who are genuinely connected with the faith could have done it along with most shamans probably. Fae and psychics are other possibilities. Witches or druids maybe.”

“We can probably rule out priest,” Dean said wryly. “I don’t think Stiles is hiding a clerical collar anywhere under his hoodie. And he’s never reacted to anything iron so we can rule out fae. Which leaves psychic, witch, or druid.” He frowned, tapping his fingers along the rim of his cup as he considered it.

“Dean,” Bobby said slowly.

“You and Dad have already talked about this, haven’t you?” Dean said resignedly, more than familiar with both the expression on Bobby’s face and John’s tendency to keep him out of the loop. “Dad knows something’s up, and that’s why he’s so suspicious of Stiles, isn’t it?”

Bobby inclined his head, conceding to the point. “Your dad has theories. Well, one really. He thinks, and I agree, that Stiles might be psychic.”

“Has he tried just _asking_ Stiles about it?”

“He has, but we don’t think Stiles knows,” Bobby said. “And even if he did, I'm not sure Stiles would be willing to share. If you recall he’s not exactly the most trusting of hunters.”

Dean furrowed his brows. “Do you think that’s why? Argent certainly seemed to know more than he let on. Maybe Stiles’ problems with the other hunters went beyond a job gone sideways.”

“It’s definitely a possibility,” Bobby said with a frown. “There are a lot of hunters who won’t differentiate between _someone_ who’s supernatural and _something_ that’s supernatural.”

“Like my dad?” Dean asked, uncomfortable it seemed with the implication even if he was the one voice it.

Bobby shook his head. John was a lot of things, but a cold hearted killer wasn’t one of them. “John sees shades of grey, Dean,” he assured. “He’s not gonna hurt that boy, not unless Stiles hurts someone else.”

“He wouldn’t,” Dean said immediately, and Bobby didn’t contest that. He did find it a little odd, though, that Dean was more willing to defend Stiles than he was John.

* * *

John was a smart man, there was no doubt about that, but there was one glaring problem with his current plan. He’d tracked the demon and located the town it had been in, but there was no way to determine whether or not it was still _in_ said town. And if it was still in said town then short of spraying every person in the face like a bad dog with a bottle of holy water there was no way to determine _who_ it was in.

John was also a stubborn bastard, so they were doing the next best thing to spraying everyone in the face with holy water. That next best thing was obsessively stalking anyone who had contact with the demon though Stiles wasn’t sure why a demon would hang around any of the families it’d already struck. There wasn’t really a better option, however, which was why Stiles was sitting outside the coffee shop across the street from Charles Westmoreland’s place of employment while Bobby made rounds to the farms outside the city, John kept tabs on three other survivors of the demon’s attacks, and Dean worked his magic with the local law enforcement.

Perhaps it was the right thing to do anyway. After all the Nogitsune had seemed set on playing with Stiles’ family and friends, continuously returning its attention to them even as it moved forward with its plans of pandemonium and chaos. Stiles had always thought it was some sort of sick torture designed to mess with his mind beyond what the Nogitsune could accomplish on its own.

Then again Stiles’ friends had served their own purpose in the Nogitsune’s plans with Lydia being a banshee and Scott an alpha werewolf. The victims of the demon here seemed exceedingly normal and as unimportant as ants scorched beneath a magnifying glass. The only interesting thing Westmoreland had done all day was eat a bagel and drop a dollop of cream cheese on his shirt. Stiles didn’t think there was a more boring job than working in a dry cleaners.

He couldn’t help but recall Martin as he watched Charles. Even just the memory of their conversation turned Stiles’ stomach, twisted him up into a warped mess of anxiety that left him feeling vaguely ill. Sipping at his coffee in some desperate attempt to settle his stomach, he watched Westmoreland move around the cleaners as if there were lead weights on his feet. Stiles understood; even if Charles wasn’t the one who’d been possessed the impact on his life was more than severe. It was devastating in all manner of the word.

Stiles glanced at his phone as it started to buzz on the table answering on the second ring when he recognized the number. “Dude, Westmoreland leads the most boring life ever,” he said, and it was so easy to mask the stress of the case behind his usual level of mockery. In some weird way that actually made him feel a little better, like he could exercise a certain level of control.

 _“I’m sure,”_ Dean replied and Stiles could practically hear the sarcastic eye roll in the words. _“Listen, I need you to meet me downtown.”_

Stiles frowned standing from his table. “Where at?” he asked. Cradling the phone between his ear and shoulder Stiles fished out enough to cover his meager bill and the tip before giving Westmoreland one last glance.

_“Fifth and Locust. There’s a Starbucks. I’ll meet you outside.”_

“Okay,” Stiles said already headed up the street to the nearest bus stop. “I’m on my way.”

He caught a bus downtown having to take two transfers before he found the right intersection. Dean was standing by the curb outside the aforementioned Starbucks, hands tucked into his pants and suit jacket slung over his arm. The top buttons of his dress shirt were undone and the sleeves rolled up, probably seeking relief from the near oppressive Georgia heat although it didn’t seem to be doing much to help; Dean still looked sweaty and peeved at the heat. Stiles wasn’t one to judge though he himself had on several layers in an attempt to ward off the ever present chill he felt even in the humid south.

The hunter glanced up, zeroing in on Stiles as soon as he disembarked the bus. Stiles checked the street then crossed, raising an eyebrow in silent question before he was even close enough to have an actual conversation.

“Here,” Dean said once he was closer holding out a folded sheet of notebook paper. Stiles frowned and took it, unfurling the page to see a list of names and dates scrawled in a penmanship he didn’t recognize.

“What’s this?”

“List of people involved in cases that are of the more preternatural persuasion,” Dean said. “Ben wasn’t able to get me the files, but I figured with your more eclectic technological skill set you might be able to get them for us.”

Stiles scanned the list again and shrugged. “Sure, but I don’t know how they’re going to really help. All it does is tell us where the demon’s been, not where it’s going.”

Dean sighed, sliding his hands back into his pockets and rocking back on his heels. “If we can find some sort of connection between the victims it might give us a better chance of figuring out where to look.”

“Except there might not _be_ a connection,” Stiles argued. “This thing could be flying through these people at random.”

“Unlikely,” Dean said with a shake of his head. “It might seem chaotic and random, but Dad says these things always have some sort of pattern. We just gotta figure out what that pattern is.”

“Fine, I’ll see what I can dig up,” Stiles said thankful for the foresight that had him bring along his laptop even if all he was supposed to be doing today was tailing Westmoreland. He was also grateful for the wonder of free wifi at most public places of business.

Dean trailed after him as he entered the Starbucks relishing a moment in the chilled air of the coffee shop against his warm skin before scanning the area for a place to sit. His gaze flicked around the room, lingering a moment on each patron as he catalogued for potential dangers, Dean pausing at his side and no doubt doing the same.

He was just about to move forward towards a booth in the corner when the man at the counter, a local law officer by the look of the uniform, turned slightly and the shadowy form enveloping him coalesced in the sunlight. It twisted around and sneered, thin lips drawing back from sharp teeth in a silent snarl that chilled Stiles to his core.

Stiles stepped back, knocking into Dean and unable to tear his gaze from the man, the _thing_ , talking to the barista. His heart hammered in his chest, painful thudding against his ribs, mouth going dry as he tried to remember how to breathe. His hand found Dean’s arm on instinct as the man went to move past him, the hunter a warm sense of stability even in his confusion.

“Dean,” he hissed digging his fingers hard into the muscle of the hunter’s arm. “Dean, it’s him.”

* * *

Dean was never more thankful for air conditioning than when he and Stiles finally stepped inside the Starbucks and out of the sweltering Georgia heat. He’d never been a big fan of the south and the temperature and humidity were a large part of why; he’d rather freeze his ass off in Maine than melt like the Wicked Witch of the West in Florida.

He shifted around Stiles who’d paused just inside the door intent on bidding goodbye to Ben before the officer left to return to work. He’d barely made it past when the younger boy knocked into him and grabbed his arm, fingers pressing in deep and nails biting at his skin. Dean winced glancing at Stiles in concern.

“Dude—”

“Dean,” Stiles whispered harshly staring wide-eyed across the room at Ben. “Dean, it’s _him_.”

“What?” Dean asked glancing at poor, innocent, blond Ben smiling shyly at the barista. Totally undeserving of whatever had Stiles flying into a panic. “No, that’s just Ben. He’s the officer who—”

Stiles shook his head violently, face pale and breaths shallow. “No, trust me, it’s not.”

“How do you—”

“Trust me, Dean,” Stiles repeated, desperate and strained. “He’s possessed.”

Dean looked at Ben again taking in the faint flush on the back of his neck as the barista teased him, the awkward shuffling of his feet, his hand curled into a fist by his side. Dean eased Stiles’ fingers from his arm pressing the younger man into a booth by the door. “Stay here,” he said lowly.

A flash of panic danced over Stiles’ features but he didn’t argue, just slid into the booth and picked up the specials listing acting as if he was reading it though Dean noticed him furtively glancing over at Ben.

Dean cleared his throat, tugging at the sweat soaked collar of his shirt and moving towards the counter. Ben turned as Dean approached, a pleased smile stretching across his face.

“Agent Mahone,” he said brightly. “Did you get ahold of your friend?”

“Sure did,” Dean said offering a smile of his own. “He’s gonna look into those names for me.”

“Good, good,” Ben said. “Glad I could help. Again.”

“You’ve been a great help,” Dean said glancing over towards Stiles who was doing a good impression of not watching them. He turned his attention solely back to Ben. “Uh, look, this might be overly forward of me,” he said with a short laugh, “but I believe in just going for things.”

“A good belief to follow,” Ben said, a small almost hopeful smile dancing across his lips.

Dean chuckled, ducking his head a little though he kept his gaze trained on Ben’s face. “Would you like to grab some lunch with me maybe? Something more than coffee, I mean. I saw a wonderful little Christo just down the street I’d love to try.”

The small flinch was almost unnoticeable, but Dean caught it, insides going cold at the implication. He kept his expression carefully open though, inviting as Ben took a step away and coughed lightly.

“I’m sorry, what?” Ben said.

“Lunch?” Dean repeated. “At the bistro down the street. My treat.”

“Ah, maybe another time,” Ben replied, gaze still guarded and expression one of forced remorsefulness. “I really should be getting back to work.”

“Sure, sure,” Dean agreed. “Rain check.”

Ben placed a few dollars on the counter then left, twisting around to offer Dean a wave as he did so. Dean returned it, plastering on a fake smile and waiting for Ben to move out of sight before crossing the room to slide into the booth across from Stiles.

“Okay, how did you know?” Dean asked.

Stiles bit his lip staring out the window after Ben though the possessed officer was no longer in sight. “Don’t tell John,” he said.

“Stiles—”

“Please.”

Dean huffed, scrubbing a hand over his mouth. “What the fuck would I even tell him? That you knew the dude was possessed just by looking at him? Stiles, tell me what's going on. How did you know?”

“I could see it,” Stiles said sharply, bracing his hands against the table as if he needed the support. “Okay? I could see it.”

Dean narrowed his eyes, shifting back a bit at the raw emotion in Stiles’ tone. It wasn’t anger or fear; Dean would almost describe it as horror though whether it was directed at what he’d seen or himself Dean wasn’t sure. “See what?” he asked.

Stiles let out a short breath. “The demon,” he said, eyes going unfocused for a moment before he shook his head. “Around Ben. It’s like an aura, a shadow almost.”

“That you can see?” Dean said and Stiles nodded jerkily. “Why?”

“How the hell should I know?” Stiles said giving Dean a harsh glare. “It’s not as if I’ve ever seen it before.”

“Then how’d you know it was a demon?”

“Gee, Dean, I don’t know. We’re in a town where we think there’s a demon and then I see a dude surrounded by a black shadow doing its best devil impression,” Stiles said scathingly. “What other explanation would there be?”

Dean sighed, kneading at the bridge of his nose. “Fine, this stays between us,” he conceded noting Stiles’ look of relief. “For now.”

Stiles seemed to sag in relief, collapsing back against the booth. “Thank you,” he said softly.

“Don’t thank me yet,” Dean said. “After this hunt I have some questions for you.”

* * *

“And you’re sure it’s him?” John asked.

Dean nodded, not even glancing in Stiles’ direction as he said, “One hundred percent.”

Bobby hummed thoughtfully. “How’d you figure it out?”

This time Dean flicked his gaze to Stiles briefly. “He said a few things that seemed a little out of place, seemed a little too familiar with some of the cases, so I took a chance. Dropped a Christo into the conversation to see if I’d get a reaction,” Dean explained and Stiles let out a small breath of relief.

John nodded slowly. “And it doesn’t suspect you?”

“Well, he made an effort to stay in character,” Dean said. “Seemed intent on maintaining appearances so I don’t think he realizes that we’re here.”

Stiles wasn’t sure he agreed with that. Ben could have all sorts of reasons for not letting Dean know that he knew Dean was a hunter. Letting the hunters think they had the benefit of surprise when they really didn’t was definitely a possibility Stiles wouldn’t put past a demon, particularly when such belief on the hunters’ part actually put the demon ahead of them in terms of advantages.

“Where is it now?” John said, sharp eyes narrowed in thought as he worked out a new plan of action.

“Ah, back at the station,” Dean said. “But we can’t confront him there. Too many people.”

“After work,” John agreed. “We’ll tail him to his house.”

Dean grinned fishing a piece of paper from his pocket. “He gets off at four today, and I’ve already got his address.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for all the kind words and kudos and just reading and waiting patiently for my sporadic updates.
> 
> You can follow me on [tumblr](http://little-red-and-his-wolves.tumblr.com) and because I know I will be working a lot this coming week I'm gonna tentatively set the next update for **July 21st** (but it _might_ be sooner). Things will really pick up in chapter four so I'm excited.


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A rare demon possession stirs up bad memories for Stiles and gives the Winchesters and Bobby another small clue to what happened in Stiles’ past that he refuses to talk about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I actually kind of made my goal this time. Hooray! Okay, so I kind of missed it. But only by a day so it's progress.

**This Burden Came To Me**

If Dean had thought he’d seen Stiles high-strung and nervous before, it was nothing compared to the edgy mess of a boy wound tight in the passenger seat with his eyes glued unerringly on the house they were watching. It was odd, Dean thought, that Stiles was more still now than he usually was; that the biggest evidence of his nerves was how he _wasn’t_ moving instead of his usual fidgeting. An almost tangible aura of energy was snapping around him, charging the air with an acrid scent that permeated the atmosphere of the car. Dean had to wonder how much of it was real and how much was just a sense of stress.

He was watching Stiles more than he was watching for Ben, but Dean figured Stiles was watching the house close enough for the both of them. Dad and Bobby were watching too, around the back, all of them waiting with varying degrees of patience as four o’clock came and went.

“Stop staring at me,” Stiles said abruptly almost startling Dean with the coldness of his tone. "You're freaking me out."

Dean quirked an eyebrow, making sure to keep a level and easy tone of voice as he said, “Not tryin’ to freak you out. Just tryin' to figure you out is all.”

Stiles flicked his gaze to the side, slanting to take in Dean for a split second before staring back at the house. “Nothing to figure out.”

“You said you could see the demon,” Dean reminded him listing the last of many peculiarities when it came to Stiles. Now really wasn't the time to really get into it. “That’s something.”

“Demon first,” Stiles said tonelessly unknowingly echoing Dean's thoughts. “Then we figure why I’m seeing things.”

“I’m multitasking," Dean replied lightly while also noting the use of things as opposed to demons. 

“Well can you multitask without staring at me?” Stiles asked. Dean would almost describe his tone as snappish if it held any real heat. As it was, however, he mostly just sounded tired.

The clock clicked over to four ten and Stiles stiffened in his seat as a maroon Crown Vic turned down the street. Dean licked his lips and leaned forward taking Stiles’ reaction as confirmation Ben was in that car. How Stiles knew that from so far away he didn’t know, but as the car rolled closer and pulled into the driveway Dean could see he was right. Stiles grew even more still as Ben exited his car, the charge in the air like static electricity and raising the hair on the back of Dean’s neck as the younger boy narrowed his eyes. If looks could kill Dean had no doubt the demon would be on its way beck to Hell already.

As soon as Ben disappeared into the house Stiles was out of the car, slipping unobtrusively across the street around parked cars, mailboxes, and white picket fences with Dean on his tail as they approached the house. Dean waved his hand at Bobby and Dad, the older hunters slipping from Bobby’s truck to flank the house.

The door was unlocked; Dean eased Stiles behind him as they entered holy water clutched in his hand and Stiles a line of heat at his back. The Devil’s trap they’d placed beneath the area rug in the living room earlier was empty, Ben having apparently bypassed it entirely. Dean pursed his lips wishing once more the front of the house hadn’t been too open for them to place one right inside the door. Unfortunately if they didn’t want nosy neighbors poking their noses where they didn’t belong then they couldn’t exactly try an exorcism on what amounted to the front porch.

A faint snick barley detectable over the sounds from the kitchen indicated Dad and Bobby had made their way in. Dean caught sight of them and signaled quickly to the kitchen. Dad nodded once, he and Bobby heading for the second entrance while Dean and Stiles took the main one.

Ben was bent over by the fridge digging through containers as if looking for something to eat. He straightened up as Stiles and Dean crossed the threshold, letting the fridge door fall shut with resounding thud and turning slowly. He didn’t seem surprised to see them, a little resigned perhaps, a little disappointed, but the earnest and welcoming expression that had adorned Ben’s features before was gone. In its place was a cool look of indifference and mild dissatisfaction.

“There was a part of me hoping that slip earlier was just that,” Ben said blandly. “A slip. Guess not.” He tilted his head to the side, gaze running over Stiles still half hidden behind Dean. “Who’s your friend, Dean?”

“Don’t move,” Dean ordered as Dad and Bobby eased through the other entrance.

Ben chuckled seeming unconcerned at the presence of four hunters in his kitchen. “What are you gonna do, Dean? Throw some holy water at me? Spout some Latin?”

Dean smirked stepping further into the room with care. “Whatever works,” he said. Bobby cleared his throat starting off the exorcism while Dean and Dad flanked Ben into a corner, Stiles hanging back as planned.

Ben snarled, stumbling against the counter. When he looked up his eyes were dark, orbs of nothing but black showing the true nature of the soulless creature within. “You’re out of your depth, _boy_ ,” he snarled.

Dean flung out a stream of holy water even as he felt the ground fall away beneath him. Pain and surprise lanced through him when he hit the wall, air rushing from his lungs and holy water slipping from his fingers. He heard shouting, thought he picked out Stiles in amongst the voices though he couldn’t quite tell what anyone was saying.

Bobby was still reciting Latin, Dad was spewing threats, Stiles was yelling something, Ben was practically shrieking; the whole kitchen had descended into chaos.

Dean tried to catch his breath, getting a few false starts as the air struggled through his lungs. He stumbled to his feet, casting his gaze around for the holy water. He glanced up at a surprised shout, just managing to brace himself as Bobby sailed across the room crashing into him and knocking them both to the floor. His elbow hit something hard, a fiery flash of pain arcing through his arm.

Dean flailed trying to untangle his limbs from Bobby’s. With the exorcism ceased Ben was once again standing tall, eyes glinting dangerously. Dad slammed into the refrigerator making a sizable dent in the door and crumpling to the floor. Which left Stiles frozen in the middle of the room.

Ben grinned lecherously, blood staining his teeth as he took a threatening step forward. “Looks like you're the last man sanding,” he said softly.

“Stiles,” Dean gasped. Stiles glanced over remaining stock still otherwise, one hand outstretched before him as if could actually shield him. He met Dean’s gaze for less than a second then bolted from the room with Ben right behind.

* * *

Stiles’ heart hammered hard in his chest. Painfully so, but he kept his head. Dashed into the living room, his back to the stairs and halting on the opposite side of the Devil’s trap they’d painted on the floor. Ben appeared in the doorway stopping just beyond the edge of the trap with an amused quirk of an eyebrow.

“Really?” Ben asked stomping his booted foot against the hard wood floor. The boards splintered beneath the force and he crouched to pull one piece completely free, a strip of white proving the destruction of the circle beneath the rug. Ben tossed it away with a sigh. “You think I’m that stupid?”

Stiles stumbled back against the steps turning to scramble up them, nearly falling on the first landing and cracking his knee painfully against a step. Ben laughed behind him, fingers clenching around Stiles’ ankle for a brief moment before Stiles kicked him in the face. Ben shouted out a curse, and the fingers loosened losing their hold. Stiles pushed himself to his feet half crawling to the top of the stairs. He fled down the hallway heading for the door at the end, Ben a smothering presence of dread behind him.

Stiles slid into the room slamming the door shut behind him. Glancing quickly around what appeared to be some sort of study and backing into the middle, he dug his hand into his pocket drawing a handful of mountain ash from the pouch. He cast it around him just as Ben shoved the door in hard enough to knock it off the hinges before he sauntered through.

Stiles’ heart thundered in his chest and he forced himself to hold his ground within the circle even though he wanted nothing more than to run like a bat out of hell. The instinct to flee was strong, but Stiles would have to run a lot faster than something out of hell to get away from Ben.

“Mountain ash,” Ben said thoughtfully, voice gone nasal with his broken nose and unconcerned at the blood dripping over the lower half of his face. Cocking his blond head to the side Ben tapped a long finger against his chin as he considered the barrier around Stiles. He glanced up at Stiles arching a single eyebrow and smiling wanly. “Interesting choice. I wouldn’t have pegged you for a tree hugger, Stiles.”

“Yeah, well, I joined the club,” Stiles snapped, hair rising uncomfortably at how his name rolled off the demon’s tongue. He tried to collect himself, settle his mind and body into a unified whole and keep his center. Tendrils of his control were seeping out of him, fraying away with each passing second. 

Ben chuckled circling Stiles slowly. “You know the funny thing about mountain ash, Stiles? Unlike salt, which has it’s own advantages and disadvantages, mountain ash is only as strong as the person wielding it,” he mused. “Put it in the hands of a very accomplished druid and it can be virtually impenetrable. But put in the hands of a fledgling hunter who dabbles in druidry? Well, then it’s about as strong as a brick wall.”

Stiles licked his lips trying to calm his racing heart as Ben continued his lazy laps around his circle. He glanced toward the broken door behind the demon wondering if the others had gotten their feet back beneath them yet. John had been knocked out cold, he thought, but Bobby and Dean had seemed all right.

“So tell me, Stiles,” the demon whirled suddenly slamming his fist against the mountain ash barrier and causing a brilliant flare of blue as he snarled, “how much do you _believe_?”

Stiles flinched away instinctively even knowing he couldn’t be touched within the circle. His breaths caught, heart pounding unsteadily in his chest, palms going clammy as sweat dripped down his back. “Enough to keep you out,” he said.

Ben grinned at him, split lip pulled across bloodied teeth. “Are you sure?”

“Enough to keep you out,” Stiles repeated closing his eyes briefly before leveling Ben with what he hoped was a steady look of confidence.

Ben stepped back jerking his thumb in the direction of the broken doors “And what happens when your hunter buddies finally come in and find you in a circle of mountain ash? Do they know about you? Who you are and what you’ve done? Shall I tell them?”

“I don’t care,” Stiles said. “You’re not getting in me.”

“Oh, dear boy,” Ben practically purred. “That’s where you’re mistaken. I’ll be joining you momentarily.”

He shook his hands out like he was preparing for a magic trick before pressing them against the barrier once more. His face twisted as he pushed, lines of exertion stretching across his features and fresh blood trickling from his swollen nose. Stiles eyed the points of contact nervously, feeling the pressure on the barrier like an elephant sitting on his chest, slowly crushing all air from his lungs.

“I’m gonna get through this then I’m gonna get in you and ride you off into the sunset. But only after we flay those hunters alive. How do you think it will feel, Stiles? To slice the flesh from their bones? To bathe in their blood?” Ben chuckled lowly dropping his voice to an intimate whisper. “How do you think they’ll taste, Stiles? I think they’ll taste wonderful. I can already hear their screams. You’ll hear them too. I’ll let you feel _everything_. A front row seat to the best horror movie of your life. You still crave it, don’t you? That rush of power when you take a life. It’s exhilarating. Made all the more pleasing because they’ll only see _your_ face.”

Stiles felt the moment the mountain ash snapped, like a rubber band stretched too far and too thin. It frayed apart then shattered knocking Stiles back even as Ben slammed into him.

* * *

Bobby was getting too old for this shit. He was sick of getting thrown around like a rag doll. Even more sick of slamming into his hunting partners and feeling a bit like a beetle on its back as he tried to untangle himself from Dean and get back to his feet.

Once he’d righted himself in the world again he turned to help haul Dean to his feet. Kid seemed mostly intact thankfully. “You okay?” he asked gruffly. Dean nodded, sucking in a deep breath like his lungs had just started working again.

A loud thud sounded from another part of the house followed by a cry of pain. Dean’s eyes widened as he glanced in the direction Stiles had run then back to the crumpled form of his father.

“Go,” Bobby said jerking his chin towards the stairs and still a little out of breath himself. “I’ll check John.”

Dean gave a sharp nod accepting the holy water and book Bobby pressed into his hands then crept from the room, moving stealthily towards the stairs. Bobby retrieved the holy water Dean dropped earlier from where it had slid almost fully beneath the stove and moved to crouch next to John. A cursory check of his head revealed no visible wounds so Bobby heaved him up to lean against the fridge and tapped a hand to his cheek.

“John,” he said as the other man groaned. “Hey, John.”

John blinked surging upward as consciousness rolled over him. Bobby grabbed his shoulder firmly pushing him back against the fridge.

“Easy, Winchester. You took a good knock to the head.”

“Where is it?” John rasped looking around the kitchen that probably seemed exceedingly empty at the moment having lost three of its previous occupants. 

Bobby frowned helping John struggle to his feet. “Stiles and Dean are upstairs with Ben,” he said. Something shattered above them, a solid thud sounding after, and John stiffened leaning heavily against the counter.

“Go help them,” he demanded shaking Bobby’s hands off him even as he listed a bit to the side. “I’m fine.”

Bobby sighed but obligingly left John behind heading up the stairs faster than Dean had. He scanned the second floor quickly narrowing in on the far room as the source of the struggle though it seemed quiet now. Holding his holy water at the ready he eased down the hall keeping his eyes peeled for any sign of the demon. The window on the far side of the study was shattered, curtains billowing in the breeze. He could hear Dean talking, words too low to make out from where Bobby was currently. There was no sign of Ben anywhere in the room, just Dean crouched over a kneeling and panicked Stiles.

“Stiles, you need to breathe. You’re okay, I promise, but you need to breathe,” Dean said voice pitched low and soothing.

Bobby moved further into the room checking again for any sign of the demon. He frowned stepping over a line of something on the floor. It wasn’t salt, that much was for sure. Stooping down Bobby pinched some of the brown powder between his fingers. It was coarse, slightly warm to the touch, and smelled vaguely woodsy.

“What if I’m not?” Stiles gasped, sounding two breaths away from an utter panic attack if he wasn't there already. “Dean, get it out. Please, get it out.”

“There’s nothing in you,” Dean said. “You just gotta breathe. Okay? Just breathe.”

“I don’t wanna hurt anyone,” Stiles wheezed words thin and half formed. “Don’ let me, Dean. Don’ let me hurt anyone.”

“You’re not gonna hurt anyone, Stiles. You’re just gonna breathe. Just breathe with me. Come on. Just breathe with me.”

They didn’t seem to be helping, Dean’s words. Stiles was still breathing in punched out gasps of air sounding as if they were painfully torn from his lungs with his hands clenched around Dean’s arms so hard Bobby was sure there’d be bruises later. In fact it almost sounded as if Stiles was getting worse, to the point where he didn’t really sound as if he was breathing at all anymore. Bobby crossed the room to the window, peering out to the ground a story below them and verifying what he already knew; the demon wouldn’t have stuck around.

“Stiles,” Dean repeated sounding a bit strained himself as Stiles’ wheezing went near silent. Bobby gave the yard one last survey before turning around. “Stiles, listen to me, okay? Stiles? Shit.” Dean leaned down one hand sliding up along Stiles’ jaw the other cradling the back of his head as he pressed their lips together firmly.

Bobby’s eyebrows rose on their own accord and he instinctively glanced over his shoulder checking for John even though he knew the other man was probably still downstairs.

“Nothing’s in you, Stiles,” Dean whispered fiercely before kissing Stiles once more. “Nothing in there but you. I promise. But you gotta calm down.”

Bobby eased back to the doorway, waiting patiently and quietly as Dean continued murmuring to Stiles and keeping one ear on the steps ready to intercept if John made his way up the stairs. It took a few more minutes but finally Stiles seemed to calm sagging in Dean’s hold as if all his strength was draining away with the panic. Bobby was relatively sure that was the case; panic attacjs tended to really take it out of a person. Dean kept Stiles close, but didn’t kiss him again. Eventually Dean seemed to realize they were being watched, twisting around to meet Bobby’s gaze head on, a storm of worry and concern thinly veiled in his eyes.

“It went out the window,” he said and Bobby nodded. “My dad?”

“He’s fine,” Bobby said matching Dean’s soft tone. As if on cue he heard footsteps on the steps, slow and steady as John made his way upstairs. Bobby turned to meet him shaking his head grimly at the unspoken question.

“The boys?” John asked coming to a halt next to Bobby and peering into the room.

Bobby sighed. This hunt was turning into quite the clusterfuck. “Been better.”

John pursed his lips, something dark settling over his countenance as he leaned against the doorjamb. At Dean and Stiles or the fact that they’d lost the demon, Bobby didn’t know but he was more than familiar with the expression.

John pushed himself off the wall at the sound of sirens wailing in the distance no doubt summoned by an overly concerned neighbor. His expression shuttered closed as he drew himself up to his full height pushing everything else down until the hardened hunter was all that was left. “Get him up, Dean,” he said bruesquely. “We gotta go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the kind words and continued support. Y'all are the best! 
> 
> Next update tentatively for **July 28th**. As always you can comment here or find me on [tumblr](http://little-red-and-his-wolves.tumblr.com)
> 
> Also, I can't believe I actually used the kissed to help stop a panic attack trope. Seriously, I'm terrible, geez.


	5. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A rare demon possession stirs up bad memories for Stiles and gives the Winchesters and Bobby another small clue to what happened in Stiles’ past that he refuses to talk about.

**This Burden Came To Me**

Stiles couldn’t hear anything. The world and his thoughts were muffled, drowned silent by the steady pounding of water into the tub. It was strangely soothing, the barrage of not quite noise acting like some sort of shield between him and reality. A thunderous shield that enveloped him and let him pretend just for the moment that he wasn’t part of the world. That he didn’t have to walk out of this bathroom and cope with his life.

Cope.

If he weren’t underwater Stiles might laugh at that.

He let his mind drift, carefully settled beneath the surface and focused only on the thrumming of the water pouring from the faucet. He didn’t think about Ben, he didn’t think about Beacon Hills or the Nogitsune, he didn’t think about Dean and the others. He just listened to the water.

Eventually he became aware of a different sound, not water pouring into water or his heartbeat. It was pounding. Pounding on the bathroom door.

Stiles surged up, sputtering as he realized how much his lungs had been burning for air and wiping a hand over his eyes to catch stray droplets of water. The water sloshed around him, spilling over the edges of the tub as Stiles struggled to catch his breath and calm the frantic beating of his heart. He winced a bit at the mess he was no doubt making but ultimately dismissed it as not the worst thing this bathroom had probably seen.

“Stiles?” Dean said, concern thinly veiled as he knocked again on the door. “Stiles? You okay?”

Maybe he’d been too quiet. “I’m fine,” he called wincing again at the ache in his lungs. Maybe he’d also held his breath for longer than advised. Stiles blinked, wiping once more at his eyes as water ran from his hair, and leaned forward to turn off the facet. The stillness that descended was almost deafening, the whole room silent save for his quiet breathing and the slight drip, drip, drip as the faucet leaked into the full tub.

Fumbling only a bit Stiles reached beneath and yanked on the chain for the plug. Immediately the pipes groaned loudly as water rushed through them draining the tub surprisingly quick. Stiles pushed himself to his feet shivering in the cool air and uncaring of the water he dripped to the floor which joined the already present puddle as dragged a scratchy towel over his skin and scrubbed it over his hair. It smelled faintly of bleach, stiff and flimsy from the many washings it had no doubt endured. He tossed it to the floor when he was finished pushing it around a bit with his foot to soak up the worst of the water.

The mirror was completely steamed over probably due to the scalding bath Stiles had just taken, and he swiped his hand through the cool moisture after a moment of indecision. His distorted face stared back at him, warped slightly by the beads of liquid still clinging to the mirror. Stiles wiped it again collecting most of the water on his palm and dropping his gaze to his chest instead. He ran a finger along the lines of the tattoo inked just below his left collarbone, the one whose thin lines were designed to protect him. Stiles could only assume Ben’s snarl after he’d broken through the mountain ash meant that it worked. Then again, Stiles didn’t like to assume anything.

Shrugging on his t-shirt and a baggy pair of sweatpants Stiles left the bathroom unsurprised to find Dean perched on the end of the bed pretending to watch the television. He looked up as Stiles came into the room that ever-present question Stiles had yet to answer in his eyes.

“You still got that holy water?” Stiles asked digging a hoodie from his bag and pulling it on. Dean nodded reaching into his own to retrieve the flask before holding it out to Stiles.

“You know I checked, right? Splashed you with water, said Christo, sprinkled you with salt,” he said. “You’re clean. Completely you.”

Stiles frowned and poured some of the water into the palm of his hand. It puddled there innocuously leaking through his fingers to drip to the floor.

Dean raised an eyebrow as if to say, _See? I told you so_.

Stiles rolled his eyes and brought the flask to his lips to take a deep swallow. He grimaced exaggeratedly at the metallic taste that flooded his mouth and flipped Dean off as the hunter laughed at him.

“I really wouldn’t recommend drinking out of that,” Dean said rising from the bed to stand in front of Stiles and reaching out to take the flask back while Stiles choked down the mouthful of foul water. He resealed the lid and tossed it to his bag without really looking; it still landed with some degree of accuracy. “Tastes like metal shit.”

Stiles hummed noncommittally and let himself fall forward a bit, surprising the hunter as he leaned against him, hands coming up to hold loosely onto Dean’s flannel shirt.

“You’re really calm, you know that?” Stiles asked breathing in deep as he let Dean’s energy wash over him. He could feel Dean shift, likely in confusion, but not in any way to dislodge him.

“Uh, no,” Dean said quietly. “I don’t think anyone’s told me that. Like ever.”

Stiles sighed, relaxing into Dean further and focusing on the steady and slow beat of his heart. Dean was solid and stable, like the energy that thrummed through the earth and the trees. Far different from Stiles’ own that fluctuated like the tide of the ocean and was just as intense. “Well you are," he murmured. "It’s nice.”

“Are you sure you didn’t hit your head?”

Stiles bit his lip, flexing his fingers in Dean’s flannel shirt and relishing a tiny bit in the coarseness of the fabric against his fingertips.

“Stiles?”

“I lied,” he whispered. Dean stilled beneath him for a moment then let out a soft chuckle, the sound rumbling up deep from within his chest.

“Which time?”

“Earlier. When you asked how I could see the demon and I told you I didn’t know,” Stiles said.

“So you do know?”

Stiles nodded keeping his forehead pressed against Dean’s collarbone partially in preference for the contact and partially just for an excuse to not look the other man in the eye. “I mean, not for sure,” he said, “but I’ve got a pretty good idea.”

“Okay,” Dean said. “So what is it?”

“It’s a side effect,” Stiles said.

“A side effect,” Dean repeated puzzled and Stiles nodded again. “A side effect of what?”

“Of being possessed.”

Dean stilled completely. Stiles swallowed taking a careful breath. After a moment Dean cleared his throat and said, “You’re not possessed.”

“No,” Stiles agreed because he’d settled on that much by now, and Dean relaxed minutely at the assurance in spite of how adamant he’d been earlier. “But I was. Once. Back before I left Beacon Hills.”

“Stiles—”

“I really don’t want to talk about it,” Stiles whispered interrupting Dean gently and staring at the blurry plaid right in front of him. Focused on the feel of Dean’s heartbeat and the scent of cheap motel soap. “I just wanted you to know. Why I am freaking out so bad right now with this hunt. Getting, getting possessed again…I don’t think I could handle that.”

Dean nudged his shoulder, coaxing him to take a step back and meet the hunter’s gaze. “You worried about getting possessed again?”

“I’m not supposed to be able to,” Stiles said explaining when Dean frowned in confusion. “My tattoos, they’re supposed to make it impossible.”

Dean raised his eyebrows in surprise. “So they _are_ protective?”

“Most of ‘em,” Stiles said nodding. “Some are dreams. Others are reminders.”

“Stiles,” Dean started softly, jogging Stiles from his thoughts and sounding a little uncertain. “Far be it for me to suggest talking about stuff, but this isn’t something you should just ignore.”

Stiles leaned forward again and Dean didn’t stop him, simply adjusted his stance to better accommodate Stiles using him as a leaning post. “Yeah,” Stiles agreed into the fabric of Dean’s shirt, “it isn’t.”

* * *

Dean nibbled on the end of the pen, rolling it between his teeth as he considered the sleeping form of Stiles on the bed. Dean hadn’t been able to sleep. Not after the bombshell Stiles dropped on him. Actually, he was surprised Stiles seemed to be sleeping so well though he figured that might be partially due to the fact that Stiles’ brain was using sleep as an avoidance technique. Dean was more than familiar with the practice himself, not that it seemed a viable option at the moment.

He was trying to review some of the files the demon had gotten him. He wasn’t sure why the demon had made such an effort to be helpful on what certainly had to look like a hunt, but it couldn’t hurt to go over everything again. It wasn’t like he had anything better to do with his news induced insomnia except stare blankly at Stiles and contemplate the potential horrors of his possession.

Dean had heard stories. From Dad. From Bobby. From Pastor Jim and other hunters along the road. From the few victims he’d encountered himself.

They weren’t happy stories. Heartbreaking more like, devastating and terrible, almost always ending in death. Dean was infinitely glad it hadn’t ended that way for Stiles. Of course Stiles didn’t escape unscathed, not even close. The knowledge that Stiles had been possessed could explain a lot of the holes that were still present in Stiles’ story. Like Allison’s death and Argent’s determination to track Stiles down when he went missing. Like Stiles’ mistrust of hunters and his anger at being protected. Like his shattered trust in everyone including himself.

Dean pulled the pen from his mouth frowning at the thoroughly chewed end and wrinkling his nose at it before setting it aside with a sigh. He propped his chin in his hand abandoning his pretense of doing anything other than staring at the boy on the shared bed.

A sudden knock at the door had him jumping, startled from his thoughts as he knocked his knee against the leg of the table in his rush to stand. Stiles stirred a bit but thankfully didn’t wake. Dean grimaced hopping several steps in deference to his throbbing knee and pulled the door open a few inches before whoever it was could knock again.

“Bobby? What the hell are you doing here? It’s three AM,” Dean asked, voice hushed and slightly raspy from the hours of silence.

“Actually it’s five,” Bobby said sidling past Dean who reluctantly took a step back. Bobby glanced around the room raising an eyebrow as he noted Stiles on the one disheveled bed and the other covered in their bags and clothes since they’d both taken to using it as a kind of shelf.

“What?” Dean grumbled pushing the door closed.

Bobby shook his head. “Nothing,” he said blithely, hiding a small grin. “Glad to see he’s sleeping.”

“But?” Dean hedged.

“The police found a body,” Bobby said going somber. “It’s Ben.”

Dean sighed sinking back against the unused bed with a sigh as he kneaded at his tired eyes. “Fuck,” he muttered before sighing again and looking back at Bobby. “Okay. I’ll wake him up. We’ll meet you out front in five.”

Bobby nodded and slipped from the room without another word. Dean dropped his head to his hands groaning for a solid few seconds before scrubbing his hands through his hair and standing up. He was going to need a very large cup of coffee.

“Stiles,” he said rounding the first bed to approach the second. “Hey, buddy, time to get up.”

Stiles jolted before Dean’s hand even made contact with his shoulder, blinking twice in quick succession and abruptly sitting up. He seemed a little disoriented, blinking again and pinning Dean with a questioning look. “How long was I asleep?”

“A few hours,” Dean said. “Feel any better?”

Stiles collapsed forward, folding over his legs with a pitiful moan. “Not really.”

“Well, start pretending,” Dean said tossing Stiles his coat. “We got a crime scene to check out.”

“You guys have a crime scene to check out,” Stiles mumbled into the bed. “I have a car to sit in.”

“Semantics.”

Stiles turned his head, peering at Dean with narrow eyes. “Is it Ben?” he asked, voice oddly small almost like he was afraid of the answer.

Dean swallowed, hesitating to confirm. Stiles must have read something in Dean’s expression though, because he lowered his gaze and sat up to pull his coat on. He laced his boots up quickly pausing a moment after he was finished to cradle his head in his hands.

“You good?” Dean prompted after a moment.

“Yeah,” Stiles said, offering Dean the semblance of a smile. “Yeah, I’m good.”

* * *

Stiles wrung his hands watching the flurry of police activity from afar, tapping his fingers together and counting almost like an afterthought. The Impala was warm beneath him, and the air muggy even this early in the morning. Sunlight was just beginning to peak over the edge of the horizon, most of the crime scene still cloaked in shadows from the neighboring buildings.

He couldn’t see the body. Not clearly, not from where he was positioned. A part of him was infinitely glad about that fact. Every glimpse of Ben’s still form sprawled over the pavement sent shivers down his spine and he felt more than heard the demon’s words from Ben’s mouth slithering over him in his memory.

It turned his stomach. The way some part of him was relieved to see Ben crumpled and broken on the ground, the part of him that couldn’t differentiate between Ben and the demon that had been inside him. He shouldn’t be relieved. Ben being dead simply meant the demon had moved on to a new victim, but that knowledge didn’t stop the trickle of relief bleeding through him.

Stiles intently inspected the faces of everyone present at the scene. The other officers. The CSIs. The coroner. The witnesses. Everyone was clean, not even the faintest hint of a shadow around any of them.

That didn’t stop the uneasy feeling growing inside of him. The sense that the other shoe was just about to drop, that it was hovering just out of sight over top of him ready to crush him to bits much like Ben. Stiles swallowed consciously untangling his fingers and burying his hands deep in the pockets of his coat. His spark hummed uncomfortably beneath his skin, on guard and ready to lash out at the slightest provocation.

“I was hoping to find you here.”

Stiles jerked, nearly falling off the Impala and tripping over his own feet as he spun around. Tightening down with a vice grip of iron will around his spark, Stiles took several quick steps away from the car gaze trained unerringly on the demon across from him. The man it had now was a bit older than Ben, middle aged and worn looking with lines of weariness and tied eyes that reminded Stiles strongly of his father.

“Figured the best way to draw you and your little friends in was to say tata to little Ben over there and get myself a bit of an upgrade,” the demon continued once it became clear Stiles didn’t intend to reply.

Stiles flicked his gaze over to where Dean and the others were, all standing with their backs to him as they spoke with the lead detective. The urge to yell and catch their attention was on the tip of his tongue, but the demon stood before him exceedingly calm and collected and all around them were potential innocent victims. Collateral damage, the demon would say. Extras and perks, bonuses to catching him in such a public setting.

“What do you want?” Stiles asked pleased to hear his voice stayed mostly steady.

“I'm so glad you asked,” the demon said with a grin. “Used to be I was just having fun. Sowing the seeds of discord as my kind are wont to do. But you, Stiles, you intrigue me. You’ve played with me and mine before, haven’t you?”

“No.”

The demon laughed, twisting its stolen face into something truly frightening. “Don’t lie, dearie. I can see it in you as well as you can see me in this body.”

“Fine,” Stiles bit out glancing again at the hunters and police. “ _What_ do you _want_?”

“I’ve already told you, Stiles,” the demon said seriously. “I want you.”

Stiles shook his head, retreating once more and stumbling a bit as he tripped over the curb. He turned around, ignoring every instinct that said not to turn his back to the demon and walked straight for Dean. One of the other officers reprimanded him as he crossed the tape barring civilians. Stiles ignored her, drowning out her voice as he counted his steps—one, two, three, four.

“Sir, you can’t be here! Sir!”

Stiles tried to keep his breaths even, stayed focused on his steps and his heartbeat, and as soon as he was close enough he reached out and grabbed Dean’s arm, the crisp material of his suit rough against his fingertips. Dean turned in surprise, concern quickly washing over his features even as he quickly waved off the zealous officer intent on dragging Stiles away.

“Stiles, what—”

“Is he still there?”

Dean frowned, brows creased as he looked blankly behind Stiles. Bobby and John looked as well, both wearing matching expressions of grim confusion. “Is who still there?”

“The man by the car,” Stiles said urgently digging his fingers into Dean’s arm. “Is he still there?”

“No, there’s no one by the car,” Dean said. “Who was there?”

Stiles turned, swallowing heavily as he scanned the street and ran his hands through his hair. “It was the demon. He was there,” he said. “He’s, ah, he’s in another man. Middle-aged, forty maybe fifty, about six feet tall—”

“Stiles.”

“—Caucasian, dark hair, brown eyes—”

“Stiles!” John barked grabbing his arms and giving him a shake. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Stiles bit off the words rushing from his mouth, sucking in a deep breath as he realized how winded he sounded and felt. His head was spinning, the world seeming at once starkly vibrant and vaguely distant.

“Stiles,” John growled jostling him again, fingers clenched around Stiles’ wrists like a tether.

Stiles blinked at John, then glanced at Dean who was staring at him with wide eyes, a line of worry creasing the skin between his brows. “I saw the demon,” Stiles said faintly ignoring the shared looks of confusion between John and Bobby and focusing solely on Dean. “And I think he wants me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I am tentatively scheduling the next update for **August 14th**. 
> 
> In the mean time I can always be found on my [tumblr](http://little-red-and-his-wolves.tumblr.com)


	6. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A devil's come down to Georgia, and John is intent on tracking it down. Stiles wants nothing to do with a possible demon hunt, but refusing to go would raise too many questions so he finds himself working alongside the others to track down the last creature he wants to ever encounter.

**This Burden Came To Me**

“There was a point in the beginning when I didn’t realize,” Stiles said slowly. “I don’t know if he was just weak or if he was playing with me, but at first I was just losing time. Actually I didn’t realize that to start either, not until I found things that I’d done but didn’t remember doing. Then it was just…chunks of time that would go missing. I’d find myself standing places I didn’t remember walking or driving to. My friends and dad would reference conversations I didn’t remember having. There would be all this stuff in my room that wasn’t mine that I didn’t remember getting.”

He paused, picking at a thread on the motel blanket by his knee. Dean remained silent and settled across from him, both of them cross-legged on the bed. Stiles was the picture of defeated, shoulders slumped and curled over like he was trying to fold in on himself. Like the story he was sharing was something dark and shameful. Dean didn’t like it, the slight note of soul deep pain leaking into Stiles’ words. It reminded him of the way Dad sounded sometimes when it was deep into the night and he’d spent too much time in the company of Jack Daniels.

“I thought I was going crazy. I guess it’s still debatable whether or not I did or am,” Stiles admitted with a frown at a hole in the blanket.

“You’re not crazy,” Dean objected automatically, on reflex almost even if he believed it to be true too. At Stiles’ slightly lopsided smile he added, “Not now at any rate. Can’t speak for before.”

“You assert a lot of things about my character for having only met me a scant few months ago. You sure you’re still in possession of all your faculties?” Stiles said, and Dean was relieved to hear a note of humor in his words again.

Dean smirked. “I have good instincts.”

Stiles’ answering grin was fleeting, gone in seconds as a shadow fell across his face once more. He dropped his gaze to the bed and his hands, splaying his fingers atop the cover. “Good instincts,” he echoed with an empty laugh. “Good…I had good instincts.”

“Have,” Dean corrected and Stiles shook his head.

“I had good instincts,” he repeated glancing up briefly to meet Dean’s gaze, eyes narrowed. “Like yours. Could pick out guilt like you pick out the color green, could follow a vague hunch to the right answer, could do things on a whim and have everything work out absolutely okay. Could take one look at a person and judge whether or not I should trust them.”

Dean frowned shifting just a bit closer on the bed. “You still do—”

“It’s different,” Stiles insisted leaning back. “It’s…just different now. Because I didn’t know. I didn’t…figure it out.” He paused eyes falling shut and fingers twisting in the bed sheets. “I let him in,” he whispered and it took Dean a moment to realize he was talking about the demon again, “let him hurt too many people, let him hurt…”

“You?” Dean suggested gently.

“My friends,” Stiles said over him. “My dad. Allison.”

“The demon killed her?” Dean asked.

Stiles nodded blinking rapidly looking somewhere off over Dean’s right shoulder. He cleared his throat. “Not…not directly. But he was the reason, yeah.”

“And she did die protecting you?”

Again Stiles nodded. “That’s right,” he said, barely more than an exhale.

“So what happened?” Dean prompted when Stiles was quiet for a few moments staring blankly down at his hands. “After you realized you were missing time?”

Stiles swallowed carefully twining his fingers together in a loose grasp, let out a long and soft sigh. “We knew that there was a demon loose, but we didn’t know who it had possessed. I…I had my suspicions, but I couldn’t…” He trailed off, pressing his forehead into his hands. “I tried to fight him, I did, but he was so _strong_. And he twisted everything around until I didn’t know what was real and what was nightmare. I, I fucked with the electrical system at the hospital, severed a wire that electrocuted five people. I shot my coach with a crossbow, I blew up the police station, I sta—”

Stiles choked to a stop, pressing the heels of his hands hard against his eyes and taking several deep breaths. Dean reached out but stopped just before his hand made contact. He could pick out what Stiles was saying, link it back to the highlights of tragedy Bobby had pinpointed in Beacon Hills.

The two attacks on the hospital, the accident with the schoolteacher, the bomb threat on a bus that had coincided with an actual attack at the local police department. Allison’s death at the mental asylum.

“Stiles, you know none of that is your fault right?” he said quietly.

Stiles sucked in another breath, held it for several seconds before blowing it out harshly with a throaty chuckle. “That…might actually be the millionth time someone’s told me that,” he said pressing the cuffs of his sweatshirt over his eyes before smiling wanly up at Dean.

“Well how about this,” Dean said. “You also know that I’m not going to let that happen again, right? We’re not gonna let this thing hurt you.”

One hand absently moved up to rub at Stiles’ chest, just under his collarbone and over his heart, and Dean wondered for a brief moment if the emotion playing across his face was fear or regret. Stiles rubbed his fingertips over his shirt, a gentle rasp of skin against cotton, and Dean tried to remember what design lay beneath the fabric but couldn’t recall more than a vague image of entwined lines, equal parts bold and delicate as they traced over Stiles’ skin.

“Stiles, you hear me?”

“Yeah,” Stiles said pulling his hand from his chest like he’d just realized what he was doing. “I hear you.”

* * *

Bobby sighed barely refraining from pulling his cap off his head and running a hand through his thinning hair once more. He was no expert but four times in less than two minutes seemed excessive.

“What?” John snapped and Bobby paused in readjusting his hat, settling it a little more firmly on his head before sighing again. “Spit it out, Singer. I ain’t got the patience to listen to you moan and groan the whole time we’re here.”

“I’m just thinking about what interest a demon could have in Stiles?” Bobby said propping one arm against the door and casting an inquisitive gaze John’s way.

John echoed his earlier sigh, running a hand over his short beard. “I don’t know. And right now I don’t care. Our priority should be catching the damn thing.”

“And how do you propose we do that?” Bobby asked. “We don’t even know if it’s still here.”

“If Stiles is right and it’s taken in interest in him then there’s no reason to think it’d leave now,” John said.

“If Stiles is right,” Bobby said bluntly, “then maybe our priority should be getting him somewhere safe and _away_ from here.”

John gave him a sidelong look and rolled his shoulders. “Stiles is safe where he is,” he stated. “Dean knows what to do.”

Bobby snorted. “More like you’re keeping him around as bait. If Stiles leaves then the demon might follow and you don’t want to loose that chance.”

“Come off your high horse,” John growled. “I am keeping Stiles safe. It just so happens that I think he’s safest here, at the motel, with Dean. Not running blind with a potential demon on his ass.”

Bobby rolled his eyes, kneading at his brow for a long moment and biting back yet another sigh. It wasn’t that he didn’t agree with the man; Stiles may very well be safer at the motel with Dean rather than as far from the town as possible especially if the demon had a vested interest in him. Bobby knew of several that maliciously stalked particular individuals all over the country if not the world when they wanted. Knew intimately himself how attached demons could get on people.

And it wasn’t that Bobby thought John was deliberately putting Stiles in danger for the hell of it. John wasn’t the type of man to do that. He was, however, the type of man to take certain risks with himself and others if he thought it served the greater purpose of finding the demon that killed his wife.

It was just Bobby’s instincts were pushing to remove Stiles as far as possible from the situation. The very last thing Bobby wanted to do was put Stiles down if the demon managed to possess the kid. He didn’t think John would even blink at the prospect, would count it as an unseemly duty of the job, at least until he was three bottles deep into the proverbial liquor cabinet. Bobby and Dean on the other hand, not so much. Bobby was self-aware enough to acknowledge the not so healthily memories it would dredge up for him and Dean wouldn’t fair to well loosing Stiles at this point either.

The fact of the matter was John, Bobby, and Dean could try their damnedest to keep Stiles safe, but if a demon had its sights set on him there was only so much they could do.

“Just making sure,” Bobby started slowly, “that you’re thinkin’ this thing all the way through. And that you’re not just rushing after somethin’ that might not even be here while ignorin’ the risks it brings to someone who’s supposed to be in your care.”

“Stiles isn’t a child,” John snapped, fingers flexing around the steering wheel. “He doesn’t need to be taken care of.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it.”

John huffed. “What are you trying to say, Bobby? Because I really don’t have the patience for your beating around the bush right now.”

“I just want to make sure you have your priorities straight,” Bobby said. “And point out that keeping that boy alive is more important than tracking down a potential lead in your—”

“Singer, I’ll advise you to shut your fucking mouth before I shut it for you.”

Bobby scowled and shook his head. Sometimes he really hated John Winchester.

* * *

Stiles’ eyes flew open, fingers clenching reflexively in the fabric beneath his hand. He blinked sitting part of the way up and untangling his fingers from Dean’s shirt. The room was dark around them, bathed only in the faint light from the television playing on low volume in the corner. Beyond the late night sitcom and the slow breaths of Dean behind him the motel was quiet lending no clues to what had woken him so abruptly. He was relatively sure it hadn’t been a dream. A quick glance at the clock showed it to be less than an hour since he and Dean had fallen asleep. Another glance showed the parking lot to still be empty of the Impala, Bobby and John likely still out and about trying to track down a demon.

He swung his feet to the floor creeping closer to the window and pulling the blinds apart to peer outside. The parking lot was deserted of a lot more than John’s Impala. Aside from Bobby’s truck there was only two other vehicles—a maroon Ford Fusion and an old green GMC pick up truck—and the gravel lot was illuminated by one lone and valiant street lamp trying to cast the whole area in an orange glow.

Eerily empty, Stiles thought. It reminded him heavily of a certain motel on the other side of the country. As he watched the lone street lamp gave a weak flicker then went out followed quickly by the otherwise useless lamp by the management office.

Stiles dropped the blinds back into place quickly twisting them to closed and crossing the room to the still slumbering hunter. “Dean,” he hissed shaking the older man’s shoulder. “Wake up.”

Dean blinked jerking upright in a split second, one hand drawing a knife from beneath the pillow and another going for the flask on the nightstand.

“Whoa,” Stiles said still speaking softly and taking a step back. “Chill, man, what…is that a bowie?”

“What’s wrong?” Dean asked matching Stiles’ hushed tone as he rolled to his feet and scanned the room.

Stiles eased back to the window peeking out again. “Nothing. I mean, something. I’m not sure.”

Dean joined him at the window, peering out briefly before giving Stiles a puzzled look and whispering, “What?”

“I don’t know,” Stiles replied shrugging. “Something woke me up. It’s…there’s just a weird feeling. In the air.”

Dean blinked. “There’s a weird feeling in the _air_?”

“Don’t judge me,” Stiles whispered.

“Stiles,” Dean said pulling the blinds open a bit and looking out intently, “wasn’t that lamp working earlier?”

Stiles eased over next to him. “Yeah. It just flickered off a few minutes ago. The one by the office too.”

Dean stiffened flattening the blind back to the window and grabbing Stiles’ arm to drag him towards the bathroom. “Stay here,” he ordered brusquely checking the line of salt along the sill of the window before moving about the room. Stiles watched him anxiously as he checked the other window and the door as well.

“Dean,” he said. “Dean.”

“The lights flickering off,” Dean explained peering out the window again, voice carrying quietly across the room to where Stiles hovered in the bathroom doorway. “It’s a sign the demon’s here.”

Stiles frowned easing back into the bathroom more fully. He stepped over to the window pushing himself up on his tiptoes to peer out. The street lamp flickered once illuminating the shadowed from of a man across the way. As Stiles stared the man raised a hand and waved slowly. Stiles’ frown deepened and between one blink and the next the demon was right outside the window.

Falling back with a startled yelp, Stiles quickly flattened a hand over his mouth looking towards the door. “I’m fine,” he said before Dean could ask. “Just slipped on the tub.”

It crossed his mind that he should really tell Dean that it was _here_ , but for some reason the words stuck in his throat. The demon grinned, tapping against the pane gently before considering the line of salt with something akin to disappointment. Stiles pressed his hand into his pocket, sliding into the pouch within, fingers delving into the coarse grains of salt.

Reaching out hesitantly Stiles pulled in a careful breath and swiped his hand across the window sill, salt raining down around him and the demon grinning all the brighter before vanishing. The hair on the back of Stiles’ neck stood on end and he spun around not at all surprised to see the demon between him and the door to the main room.

“Well, after your frigid reception earlier I have to say that was unexpected,” the demon said.

“Stiles!” Dean shouted followed by two thundering steps. The demon waved its hand with a bemusedly bored expression and Dean shouted again followed by a resounding thud that shook the adjoining wall.

The demon took one step forward and Stiles shoved his free hand out slamming his palm into the demon’s chest. It coughed, clearly caught off guard as it flew back, crumbling into the corner with a startled expression. Stiles darted from the bathroom, skidding around the edge and glancing at Dean briefly before backing as far away as possible. Dean was slumped against the wall but seemed to be rousing as the demon filled the bathroom doorway.

Stiles clenched his hand around the salt in his pocket reaffirming his footing and swallowing to dredge up some sort of courage.

“That wasn’t very nice, Stiles,” the demon hissed moving from the bathroom.

“Hate to break it to you,” Stiles said watching the demon’s feet closely. Just a few more steps. “But being nice to you really isn’t on the top of my priority list. Actually, it’s not on the list, like, at all.”

The demon snarled and took several quick steps forward, Dean pushed himself up with his hands braced against the wall with an audible groan, and Stiles flung out his handful of salt feeling his spark sing through his veins as he focused on casting it in a circle around the demon. It formed perfectly, the demon brought up short by the sudden barrier, knocked back as if he'd run into something invisible.

“What the hell,” Dean breathed finally regaining his equilibrium enough to turn around as Stiles darted past the still snarling demon. He grasped one of Dean’s arms to haul the hunter fully to his feet. Dean drew his wide eyes from the demon to Stiles in shock. 

“Are you okay?” Stiles asked ignoring the obvious question. 

“How did you…”

“Quick hands, quick feet,” Stiles said blithely inspecting the sluggishly bleeding cut above Dean’s eye, before giving the demon one last skittish look and dragging Dean behind him to leave the room. “Never saw it coming. Come on, let’s get out of here and call your dad.”

* * *

John ran a tired hand over his face and accepted the four coffees and breakfast sandwiches from the equally exhausted food service worker who looked about as fed up with her life as John felt with his.

“Thanks,” he said gruffly glancing at her nametag before adding, “Angela.”

“No problem,” she chirped sounding completely at odds with her expression, and the smile she gave him seemed genuine as it lit up her face. “Have a good day!”

He slid the drinks into a carrier and added a handful of napkins to the bag with the sandwiches before heading out the door to where Bobby waited in the car. Although he was frustrated to be at the same spot in this hunt as he was several hours ago and no closer to tracking down the demon he was looking forward to a few hours of sleep. Not to mention a few hours of peace from Bobby’s judgmental side looks.

Bobby’s words from earlier kept echoing through his head fanning the bed of coals simmering low and keeping his anger healthily alive. Or maybe unhealthily, if John wanted to be introspective though it wasn’t a practice he indulged in often unless he had help from Jack or Jose. He wasn’t unaware to the potential dangers of keeping Stiles near the demon, but that didn’t outweigh the potential benefits from finally getting one of those demon bastards in a salt circle long enough to get some answers. Very little would outweigh that, especially if keeping Stiles in town meant the demon would actually stick around instead of smoking off to parts unknown. It left a distinct sour feeling in his gut, using Stiles as bait, but luckily John was more than used to the feeling by now.

His cellphone started ringing halfway to the car. John shifted the drink tray and paper bag to one hand, fishing his phone out with his now free hand and glancing at the caller ID before answering.

“Dean,” he said knocking the tray into the passenger window. Bobby nudged his door open, accepting the drinks and food while arching a questioning eyebrow.

“Dad,” Dean replied after a moment sounding out of breath. Immediately John narrowed his eyes, alarm bells going off. He stiffened by the car Bobby setting their breakfast aside as he no doubt picked up on John’s tension. “Dad, you and Bobby need to get back to the motel.”

“You boys okay?” John asked shoving Bobby’s door closed and striding quickly around the Impala to the driver’s seat. The keys were turning in the ignition the next second, the fast food joint disappearing into the rearview as John sped down the road.

Dean huffed, the muffled sounds of another conversation filtering through the phone for a few moments before Dean spoke clearly again. “Yeah, we’re both fine. Just, uh…there’s a demon trapped in our room.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for continuing to read; y'all are awesome! I'm finally moving into my apartment and starting school/work next week so look for the next update around **September 10th**. 
> 
> Until then you can find me on [tumblr](http://little-red-and-his-wolves.tumblr.com)


	7. Chapter Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A devil's come down to Georgia, and John is intent on tracking it down. Stiles wants nothing to do with a possible demon hunt, but refusing to go would raise too many questions so he finds himself working alongside the others to track down the last creature he wants to ever encounter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Birthday wishes to Jenelle+Khalaily! Also, let's take a moment to acknowledge that I finally made a deadline. Go me!

**This Burden Came To Me**

Dean was just stepping out of the room as John and Bobby pulled up to the motel, drinks and food forgotten between them as they climbed out. John slammed the car door shut, anger brimming close to the surface as he gave his boy an assessing once over. Dean seemed all right aside from the cut just above his eyebrow, which looked like it had stopped bleeding already, and the beginning hints of a bruise starting to form.

“What happened?” John demanded not missing the almost guilty flinch as Dean raised one hand to scratch at the back of his head.

“Uh, I don’t know exactly,” Dean said. “I swear I checked the lines. They were all good. But somehow the demon got in, got the drop on me.”

John bit back the reprimand on the tip of his tongue, Dean's lowered gaze showed he was beating himself up enough already, opting instead for, “How’d you trap it?”

Dean shifted rubbing at the back of his neck with a tired sigh befor lowering his hand. “I didn’t. Stiles did.”

“That’s not what I asked, Dean,” John said ignoring the almost reproachful look Bobby shot him. “I asked how, not who.”

Dean hesitated, a barely there reticence, but long enough for John to make note of it though he didn’t understand quite what it meant. “I don’t know. Somehow he got a salt line down around it while it was distracted with me.”

John frowned. “Must have been pretty distracted,” he said and Dean nodded quickly before grimacing and pressing one hand lightly to the tender skin around the cut.

“Yeah,” he agreed. “It was pretty focused on me for some reason.”

John stared at him a moment longer recognizing the steadfast look in Dean’s eyes that said he wouldn’t be giving up any more information about it, at least not at this moment in time, from the many times Dean had covered for Sam before he left. John wasn’t happy to be seeing that look again, especially in relation to Stiles, but he was willing to let it go for now.

He jerked his head, indicating for Dean to follow as he moved to the trunk of the Impala. He popped it open, quickly sorting through for what he needed and grabbing salt, holy water, and a blade before handing Bobby his journal for the exorcism though the older hunter probably had the Latin memorized at this point.

“Are there people in the room next to yours?” John asked and Dean shook his head.

“Rooms seven, twelve, and fifteen all have patrons but they’re all gone now. Only person here besides us is the manager and he’s more interested in his soaps than what we’re doing,” he said pointing at the main office where John could see the bored looking man practically glued to the small television on the corner of the counter.

“Good,” he said sliding the supplies into a small bag and glancing unobtrusively around the parking lot himself. He noted two other vehicles aside from the Impala and Bobby’s truck. “Red sedan?”

“Manager’s.”

“GMC?”

Dean inclined his head. “Woman in room twelve. She was picked up earlier.”

“Good,” John repeated. “Go wait with Stiles.”

Dean hesitated again for the briefest of moments but headed off without another word.

“Are you sure it’s a good idea to do this here?” Bobby asked once Dean was out of earshot. “I don’t have to tell you these things can get messy.”

John frowned, at least considering the other options before shaking his head. “Too dangerous to try and move it," he said. "We do it here, and we do it now.”

* * *

“You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you?” the demon asked. Stiles stiffened letting the curtain fall shut obscuring the hunters outside as they conversed in quick hushed terms by the Impala. He turned slightly, just enough to see the demon from the corner of his eye. The demon smirked, reclining back on the floor and crossing his ankles. “Tell me, are you feeling more honest? If I ask you again if you’ve played with my kind before will you tell the truth?”

Stiles faced the window again; it was easier to ignore the demon and its words if he wasn’t looking.

“I can see it. My brother left you marked. Did you know that?” the demon asked. “It’s all there in the twisted remains of your blackened soul. You’re barely human yourself anymore.”

Stiles swallowed, trying not to let the demon’s words hit him too hard. Something easier said than done when they were echoing a deeply buried fear he nurtured daily. Stiles had been working hard to keep that tucked away is some dark corner of his mind since he’d left Beacon Hills. There was a part of himself, some sinister dark part, that whispered the very same thing to him anytime he let his guard down.

He’d worked hard with Sinéad and the others to accept his spark as a part of him and to accept the possession as part of his past. To move beyond the belief that he was a monster barely worth the air he breathed. For the most part he was successful, but there was something in him that always felt marked and tainted by the Nogitsune, a part of him that always felt a little too dangerous.

“Do you have any idea what your soul looks like?”

“It’s torn,” Stiles said answering against his better judgment. “Blackened and stained. I’ve done a lot I’m not proud of.”

“You really have, haven’t you?” the demon said cocking his head to the side. “I can see it on your soul. All the damage you’ve done. It’s exquisite.”

“It’s painful,” Stiles countered.

“Didn’t you know?” the demon said with a slow smile. “Demons thrive off pain. Your pain is part of what makes it exquisite. You humans are always so hung up on regret and guilt, you don’t realize how much better everything would be if you just embraced that darkness inside of you.”

Stiles flicked the curtain back again. Dean and the others were still talking. “Maybe I like wallowing in my suffering.”

It was the wrong thing to say, and Stiles regretted the words as soon as they were out of his mouth. The demon grinned, pushing himself up and creeping to the edge of the circle. “Oh, baby, if you let me in I can promise you so much suffering,” he purred.

Stiles took an involuntary step backwards wanting far more than three feet and a line of salt between them.

The demon tilted his head to the side, eyes flashing black. “Don’t you think we could have fun, Stiles?” it asked drawing his name out long and intimate.

“Don’t call me that,” he said, mouth dry and blood pounding in his ears.

“That’s your name, isn’t it? Not your real name, of course, but it’s what you prefer to be called. Or would you like me to call you something else?”

“Stop talking.”

“That’s hardly a suitable name for you,” the demon said reproachfully eyes clearing back to their normal coloring. “I like Stiles. It’s unique. Suits you. Stiles, Stiles, Stiles.”

“Shut up,” Stiles snapped. His heart thundered, palms gong clammy, and something like an unbearable itch built beneath his skin.

“We could do so many great things together, Stiles. How far do you really think you’ll get with your hunter friends? You can’t ever really trust them. You know that, right? If they knew what you really are you’d be in this circle same as me. And what about those pet mutts of yours?” the demon asked, face perfectly innocent even as the air fled the room and the floor fell out from under Stiles.

“Stop talking,” he whispered trying frantically to figure out how it could know about Scott and the others.

“They’re nothing more than inexperienced children,” the demon said. “Mindless beasts, making play they’re still human. Do you really think they’d last against hunters like John and Dean _Winchester_? How desperate are you—”

“I said _stop talking_ ,” Stiles hissed, zeroing in on the demon and pushing his will on the creature.

The demon coughed, eyes going wide in surprise as Stiles increased the pressure, willing down every word the demon attempted to voice. Forcing the demon back in the circle, Stiles actually felt a small thrill rush through him as the demon coward on the floor, hands clenching into fists in the carpet until the knuckles were nearly white.

Stiles kept up the pressure even as his head started to pound, hands shaking from the strain of overpowering a creature of such strength. The slamming of the door announcing the return of one of the hunters knocked him free. He shook his head, taking a step back as the demon fell forward wheezing.

“Well, well, well,” it rasped sounding as if Stiles had actively tried to choke him. “You really are an interesting creature, aren’t you?”

“Stiles?”

Dean’s soft call of his name helped push away the last tendrils of whatever had fallen over him. The light touch of a hand on his shoulder helped too. He pulled in a careful breath and turned to face Dean rather than the demon.

“Everything okay?” the hunter asked brows creased in concern.

Stiles nodded swiping swear from his forehead with a trembling hand. “Fine,” he said tightly. “You got this?”

“Yeah,” Dean said. “Yeah, you sure—”

“Fine,” Stiles repeated shouldering past the hunter as he fled for the door. “Just need some air.”

* * *

Dean frowned as he watched Stiles’ retreating form. The boy darted across the parking lot skirting around Dad and Bobby but halting at the far end of the lot and leaning against the light post there. He slid down the pole, curling into a small ball and drawing his knees up to his chest.

“He’s an intriguing little thing, isn’t he?”

“You shut up,” Dean said wearily. “I’m not here to talk to you.”

“Tsk, tsk,” the demon said rubbing a hand over his throat. “Well, you’re rude. You and Stiles in some sort of competition? Who can be the rudest to the demon?”

Dean turned his gaze from Stiles to the demon in the salt circle. “What? Are we hurting your feelings?”

“Maybe,” it said then shrugged with a wicked grin. “If I had feelings.”

Dean rolled his eyes, kicking at the legs of the table chair and collapsing into it. He chewed on his bottom lip, foot tapping against the floor as he considered the demon in the circle and waited for his dad and Bobby. It looked harmless. Not in the same way it had as Ben, all earnest gazes and bright smiles. Just like a kindly father type figure that bore an uncanny resemblance, almost, to what Dean figured Stiles would look like eventually.

The demon stared back tilting its head to the side. “You care about him, don’t you?”

“You ask a lot of questions for someone stuck in a salt circle,” Dean said dryly.

“Does he know?” the demon asked with a lecherous smile. “Does he know you’re carrying a big flaming torch for him?”

Dean glanced toward the door forcing himself to remain outwardly calm and unaffected. “Sure,” he said and it was true anyway. He and Stiles might be dancing around in an as of yet unspecified and undefined area but they were both well aware of it.

“Really?” the demon said seeming a bit surprised at Dean’s candid answer. “How odd. Aren’t those sort of things supposed to be built on mutual trust and, oh what do you call it?” The demon paused then snapped his fingers. “Honesty! Mutual trust and honesty.”

Dean blinked and held the demon’s challenging gaze but didn’t give it the satisfaction of answering. It was practically Monster 101—demons lie. They needle and they pry and they do absolutely everything possible within their power to throw hunters off balance. Dean didn’t need personal experience with demons to know that, and he wasn’t about to make the rookie mistake of engaging the thing in a full conversation. He definitely wasn’t about to make the mistake of talking to it about _Stiles_ and the subject of honesty.

“He’s not been honest with you,” the demon said leaning forward and speaking quieter as if he were confiding in Dean. “I hope you knew that, otherwise your dumber than I gave you hunters credit for.”

When Dean remained silent and slouched in his seat the demon sighed sounding somewhat exasperated and carried on by itself. “I can’t imagine that you _know_ everything,” it said adding careful stress to certain words. “He can’t have told you about _it_. That’d be…well, tantamount to suicide, I would think. Especially considering what I know about good ole Johnny Winchester.”

Dean couldn’t help but stiffen a bit at that, spine straightening and fingers curling against the table. The demon took immediate notice, a delighted little smile stretching across its face.

“Hit a sore spot, did I?” it asked. “Oh, is it possible you know, but dear old pops doesn’t? Are you keeping secrets from daddy? How interesting.”

Dean turned his head away, pointedly ignoring the demon and refusing to rise to the bait it was trying to dangle. He wasn’t an idiot; whatever the demon was trying to imply he had full faith in his father. Dad wouldn’t hurt Stiles for having been possessed. If anything he’d think Stiles’ ability to see demons even when they were possessing other people as useful, not a mark of something to be extinguished.

“Then again, if you _knew_ everything,” it sighed pushing itself to its feet to stand. "Well, I just don’t think your pesky hunter code would let you let him keep walking around. Come now, Deano, if you knew what he’s done…” The demon shook his head trailing off obviously and letting the room fall into a few moments of absolute silence before asking, “Are you fucking him?”

Dean snapped his gaze over to the demon surprised both by the blunt question and the visceral wave of revulsion that rushed through him at the insinuation beneath the demon’s words. His skin tightened, feeling electrified and overly hot. He dug his fingers into the worn Formica fighting down the irrational urge to kick the salt away and punch the demon right in its smug little face.

“I wouldn’t blame you,” the demon said trailing a few steps closer to the edge of the circle. Its words were pointed, meant to hurt and inflict the most amount of damage. “He’s a fine piece of meat. Got an ass I’d sure like to ride. In more ways than one.”

Dean was on his feet almost without conscious decision to stand, one hand raised in warning and a threat for the demon to never so much as touch Stiles with one of its slimy little fingers dying on his lips as the door creaked open behind him. He breathed out hard, sick to his stomach as the demon grinned no doubt pleased with the response it’d elicited. It’d been a mistake to react; a mistake to concretely confirm what the demon had already suspected.

A rough hand landed on his shoulder and Dean tore his gaze from the demon, swallowing thickly as Dad inclined his head towards the door in a clear order.

“Go check on the kid,” he said gruffly.

Dean jerked his head in a sharp nod, casting a quick glance at Bobby a few steps behind Dad before slipping from the room and tugging the door shut behind him. His chest still felt tight, blood pounding hotly through his veins and he wanted nothing more than to tear the wretched creature inside to shreds, but he forced himself to walk across the lot instead.

Stiles looked up as he approached, huffing out a short breath that could maybe be considered an approximation of a laugh as Dean lowered himself to sit next to him. “What’d he say to you?”

Dean pursed his lips, thoughts still a little too jumbled to come up with a convincing lie. “Something about you. Didn’t like the implication.”

Stiles snorted and shifted carefully so that he was facing Dean a bit more, head pillowed on arms wrapped around knees. “So basically the same thing he said to me then?” he mused.

“Possibly,” Dean hedged unwilling to ask Stiles to elaborate in case he wanted the same in return. Stiles didn’t seem interested though, gaze drifting back to the motel and staring blankly as if he could see through the walls if he just looked hard enough. Dean licked his lips. “Stiles, I have to ask you a question, and I want to ask you first before my dad or Bobby do.”

Stiles slowly looked back to him, a wary edge creeping into his expression as he drew his knees almost imperceptibly closer. He didn’t give Dean the go ahead, but Dean didn’t really expect him too.

“How’d you get the salt around the demon?”

Stiles blinked. “I told you,” he said after a beat.

“No,” Dean pointed out. “You said quick hands and quick feet which I know is a load of bullshit even if I was headbutting a wall at the time. Be straight with me, Stiles, because I don’t care how fast you are, that demon didn’t just stand there while you ran a circle around it.”

“Of course he didn’t,” Stiles said sounding vaguely affronted. “However, he was pretty distracted with you so I just—”

“Stiles,” Dean said raising his voice just enough to halt the younger boy’s no doubt lengthy and roundabout sidestepping of actually answering the question, “this is important.”

Stiles clicked his mouth shut, eyes narrowing as he regarded Dean calculatingly for a long moment before straightening a little and saying, “It’s called casting.”

“Casting,” Dean repeated trying out the unfamiliar term. “What the hell is that?”

“It’s a, uh, skill that I picked up,” Stiles said. “You can sort of throw the salt. In a circle.”

“Around a demon?”

“Or myself.”

“Stiles, that doesn’t make any sense,” Dean said digging his fingers into his eyes roughly for a moment before wincing as it pulled on the still stinging cut above his brow and dropping his hand.

“Well, it’s not exactly something that gets advertised because it tends to make hunters a little uncomfortable,” Stiles snapped defensively. “Most of you guys don’t like it when things _don’t make sense._ ”

“Okay, okay. So you throw the salt?” Dean said. Stiles nodded once. “And it just, what, lands in a perfect circle?”

“It does if you’re good at casting,” Stiles said. “Sometimes it’s more of an oval. Or vaguely round and hopefully closed polygon.”

Dean shook his head glancing briefly up at the blue sky and burning sun far above them. Stiles' circle around the demon had been a bit lopsided and shaky, but still a pretty good approximation of a near perfect ring.

“Can you teach me?” he asked, and Stiles seemed surprised at the question, blinking twice in quick succession and furrowing his brow.

“Uh, I don’t know,” he said. “It’s kind of like whistling. Some people can do it and some people can’t.”

Dean shrugged. “I can whistle.”

Stiles smiled wanly. “Okay, maybe that wasn’t a good analogy. It’s like…perfect pitch. Some people have it and others are completely tone deaf.”

“Are you calling me a bad singer?”

Rolling his eyes, Stiles shifted drawing a small pouch from his pocket and reaching out to tug Dean’s hand toward him. He upended the pouch over Dean’s palm, a fine shower of salt raining out. Dean raised one eyebrow at him as he tucked the pouch away.

“What do you feel?” he asked.

“Ah, salt,” Dean said wiggling his fingers a bit so the small mound of salt shifted in his hand. It was slightly warm to the touch which Dean attributed to the fact that it was about ninety-five degrees outside in the shade and Stiles had been sitting on the pouch, but other than that it felt like every other handful of salt he’d ever held.

Stiles hummed lightly and reached out to grasp Dean’s hand with his. He folded Dean’s fist closed keeping his hand resting gently atop as he asked again stressing the last word, “What do you _feel_?”

Dean frowned experimentally tightening his fingers around the salt in his hand. The coarse grains ground against his skin, the heat of the day and his palm making the salt feel almost hot in his grasp. Stiles’ hand was warm over his where their skin touched, an almost imperceptible sense of something charged between them. Dean swallowed flexing his hand again and savoring the contrast in sensations of the soft brush of Stiles’ fingertips against his knuckles and the rough grind of salt in his palm.

“Warm?” he guessed trying to gauge what answer Stiles was looking for from his reaction.

Stiles didn’t give much away though, something like curiosity dancing through his eyes as he loosened Dean’s fingers and tilted his hand to the side so the salt rained free except for the particles clinging to his skin. Dean watched it fall into a neat white pile against the dark pavement, glancing between it and Stiles as the other boy regarded him closely.

“Looks like I’m calling you a bad singer after all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for being so patient and sticking with me as my schedule goes nuts. I'm going to aim for the next update to be **September 21st**. Stay awesome. 
> 
> Oh, right, my obligatory you can find me on [tumblr](http://little-red-and-his-wolves.tumblr.com) spiel. Feel free to pester me or whatever.


	8. Chapter Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A devil's come down to Georgia, and John is intent on tracking it down. Stiles wants nothing to do with a possible demon hunt, but refusing to go would raise too many questions so he finds himself working alongside the others to track down the last creature he wants to ever encounter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your comments! I adore and appreciate every single one.

**This Burden Came To Me**

Dealing with demonic possessions never got any easier. They were a thankfully infrequent part of hunting like Bobby had told Stiles. On good years he didn’t encounter so much as one case of possession, and even on bad years the number tended to hover below five. The fact was, though, that even one possession case could break a person. The cases were hard, the victims were unerringly heartbreaking, and the wretched creatures liked nothing more than sowing the largest amount of discord possible.

Bobby didn’t like talking to them. Demons had an uncanny ability to pick out the deepest and darkest parts of a person’s soul and twist it around like a party balloon animal into something completely unrecognizable. Dealing with one often left him feeling drained and malcontent, off balance and irritated as he worked to tuck everything demons had a tendency to dredge up back into a corner in his mind.

It was the same for John whether the man would admit it or not; interrogations like this left him sour and irascible for weeks. The reasons were twofold. Demons were not shy about digging up every little piece to the story of how Mary died, and they were rarely helpful in providing any new information. Bobby was sure, though he’d never tell John to his face, that the trail for Mary’s killer had long gone cold even in terms of the supernatural. Tracking down the exact demon that had caused the fire nearly twenty years ago was a pipe dream at this point, but John was a stubborn bastard if Bobby ever knew one and he wasn’t ever going to stop.

The muffled screams Bobby had been tuning out as he waited off to the side and fiddling with the small book in his hands finally tapered off. He glanced up to see John with his back to the demon in the circle. It didn’t look like any permanent damage had been done for which Bobby was grateful. He’d been present at one too many of John’s less courteous interrogations where the victim either hadn’t made it or required substantial medical treatment afterwards.

John set the salt and holy water aside giving Bobby a curt nod to proceed with his part. Bobby straightened, moving to stand in front of the demon and gave it a more thorough once over looking for any indication that the host was injured enough that an exorcism would either prove fatal or they would be calling an ambulance after. It peered back at him, lips pulled into a lewd grin over bloodstained teeth.

“You three are quite the trifecta, aren’t you?” it asked, huffing out a short laugh and spitting out a mouthful of blood. “Wife, wife, and, well, a whole slew of people actually.”

Bobby narrowed his eyes but didn’t stop paging through the book for the exorcism. He glanced reflexively out the window to where he could just see Dean and Stiles as he wondered what the demon meant by that exactly. It wasn’t hard to track the implication; John and he had both lost wives, Dean a mother, which left Stiles to fill the third slot in the demon’s musings.

Locating the correct page Bobby marked it with his finger and closed the book noting the interested gleam in the demon’s eyes. “Why are you so interested in Stiles?” he asked.

“Singer,” John warned, but Bobby paid him no heed.

The corner of the demon’s mouth twitched up ever so slightly as if Bobby’s question had confirmed something for it.

“Answer the question,” Bobby said when the silence stretched for more than a few seconds. “Why are you so interested in Stiles?”

The demon shifted, pressing close to the edge of the boundary. “I want to wear him to the prom,” it purred. “I want to know what he _feels_ like.” The demon’s expression shifted, going from leering to a grotesque snarl. “I want to _ruin_ him.”

Disgust roiled in Bobby’s gut. Firming up his stance he flipped the book open and began to read, a part of him enjoying the discomfort and pain it caused the demon even though it meant the host was suffering as well.

The demon coughed, all but dry heaving over the floor as Bobby moved through the exorcism words forming easily on his tongue in spite of how little he often needed to use them. Halfway through the telltale tendrils of black smoke began leaking from the host’s orifices. The demon shuddered, fingers scraping along the carpet leaving behind broken nails and dark streaks of blood.

“You have no idea, do you?” it taunted, glaring up at him with black eyes darker than even the most sinister part of Bobby’s soul. “You have no idea what he is, what he’s done.”

Bobby paused briefly, no more than a second or two, as he considered the words. John stepped forward again, casting Bobby one hard glance before dousing the demon liberally with holy water.

“Keep going,” he said brusquely, soaking the demon again as soon as it stopped writhing from the first douse.

Bobby held back still, fingers curling around the binding of the book feeling the soft leather give just a bit beneath the pressure. The demon shuddered in the circle, skin sizzling where the water made contact and faint tendrils of steam drifting around him. It grinned, lips stretched wide over bloody teeth. “He’s a monster,” it hissed. “An aberration. Just like _me_.”

“Singer,” John snarled snapping Bobby’s attention from the demon’s words. “Finish it.”

* * *

Stiles pressed his finger through the salt on the ground relishing in the faint hint of power; little circles around and around drawing outward with each rotation before sweeping all the salt back up into a pile and starting the whole cycle again.

Slowly the salt moved from a collection of pristine white crystals to a tainted mix of salt and dirt diminishing its purity. He studiously ignored the muffled screams and shouts he could hear from the motel room across the parking lot, kept his gaze trained on the ground and hands busy with the salt. Stiles scooped up a small handful rubbing the grains between his fingers and letting them fall scattered to the ground once more. Just as he’d swept all the salt back up into a neat pile the door creaked open a grim faced John waving a beckoning hand towards him and Dean.

They rose in tandem, Stiles following the older hunter a step behind. John was wiping his hands clean as they stepped inside, faint smears of red decorating the stained rag in his hands. Stiles hesitated as he crossed the threshold already knowing what he was about to see. It still shook him, the view of the man prone in the salt circle, sightless eyes staring at the ceiling and blood seeping out from beneath him.

Stiles slowed and swallowed roughly, pulling in a careful breath and nearly choking on the stench of sulfur in the room. Dean turned towards him as he gagged, pressing the back of his hand over his mouth and moving quickly towards the bathroom. He pressed the door shut unsurprised when it opened again almost immediately, Dean slipping in after him.

“Stiles,” he said. “Hey, you okay?”

Crouched over a toilet that smelled faintly of bleach, shoulders shaking and stomach rolling, Stiles kind of felt a powerful urge to hit him somewhere tender and vulnerable. He settled for shooting Dean a weak glare that fizzled out as soon as the next dry heave quaked through him.

“You’re flipping me off in your mind, aren’t you?” Dean asked taking a few steps closer and leaning against the sink.

Trying to puke up his stomach and small intestine didn’t really lend itself to an actual reply so Stiles didn’t even try instead clutching at the porcelain beneath his fingers. The bleach burned his nose and his mouth tasted of acrid bile, but it was better than the odor of sulfur and the cloying scent of blood. After a few more shuddering breaths his stomach finally stopped cramping, everything settling to a manageable level of nausea. He stayed bent over the toilet for a moment more in case it was a false stop, then sat back once he was sure the remaining contents of his stomach would stay where they were.

He swiped the back of his hand over his face leaning forward to spit one last time into the toilet before shakily pushing himself to his feet. Dean swept his gaze over Stiles critically before turning to fill a small cup at the sink and hold it out in offering.

“Thanks,” Stiles muttered accepting the cup and using the water to rinse out his mouth. It was warm, vaguely tasted of chlorine and something a little bitter, but left his mouth feeling moderately cleaner after he spit it out.

“From what I know, survivors of demonic possession are very rare,” Dean said carefully. “Stiles, you got lucky.”

Stiles laughed, cutting it off before he could sound too hysterical. “Lucky,” he said. “Not exactly the word I’d use.”

“You’re still alive, aren’t you?” Dean challenged, words harsher than he probably meant them to be. Stiles glanced at him from the corner of his eye, ducking his head a little and drawing in a deep breath at the determined expression adorning Dean’s countenance. “Aren’t you?”

Stiles nodded, scrubbing one hand tiredly over his face and far too drained to argue. “Yeah. Sure,” he agreed before gesturing towards the door. “We should…probably go back out there.”

“You all right?” Dean asked, hand on the doorknob and gaze deliberately trained on Stiles.

Stiles huffed. “Don’t think I’ve got anything left to puke so,” he said with a shrug. “If I’m wrong then I know where the bathroom is.”

Dean rolled his eyes but pulled the door open. John looked over but didn’t comment as Stiles all but slunk out of the bathroom behind Dean. His stomach rolled threateningly as John shook out a roll of plastic, but a few hard swallows worked to keep everything down.

“What,” Stiles cleared his throat trying to get rid of the hesitant rasp that had taken up residence. “What are you doing?”

“Dean, pack the bags and go help Bobby,” John ordered. “Stiles, you help me.”

Dean glanced at Stiles taking one step towards his father. “Dad, maybe I can—”

“Pack the bags and go help Bobby,” John repeated sternly.

Dean sighed but stepped back, sending Stiles what could have been an apologetic look before sweeping the few things he and Stiles still had out of their bags into their duffels and shouldering both. Stiles waited until he left then turned back to John, asking again, “What are you doing?”

“Spread your side of the plastic out,” the hunter said.

“John.”

John sighed, wiping his hands on his jeans and squinting up at Stiles from where he was kneeling on the floor. “Can’t let the body here,” he said pointing vaguely. “Too much to link back to us. We clean it, dump it somewhere outside of town, phone in an anonymous tip for the police.”

Stiles swallowed, something hollow and achy lodging itself in his chest, just behind his heart. “His family will never know why,” he said and John shook his head holding out a pair of latex gloves.

“They won’t,” he agreed as Stiles hesitantly took the gloves. “We do our job right, his death will go unsolved.”

“Shouldn’t, shouldn’t we talk to the family?” Stiles asked pulling the gloves on almost unthinkingly and kneeling across from John. “They deserve to know what happened.”

“And what would you suggest saying, Stiles?” John said, grasping the man’s feet and motioning for Stiles to get his shoulders. “How would you propose telling this man’s wife and kids that their father was killed by a demon from Hell? How do you think they’d react to that?”

Stiles worried at his lip, grabbing the man as gently as possible to move him from within the salt circle to the plastic spread by the beds. His eyes were still open, staring unseeingly up at Stiles the whole time. After they’d settled the man on the plastic Stiles reached out and drew the man’s eyelids down. As John turned away Stiles pulled the man’s wallet from his pocket flipping it open to look at his name.

Richard J. Gardner. Stiles wondered what name he used. Did he go by the formal Richard or the casual Rich? Or maybe he went by Rick or even Ricky. Or even, perhaps, RJ.

Next to his ID was a wallet sized family picture. Another man stood next Richard, an arm around his shoulders. In front of them were two girls, one a little younger than Stiles and the other around twelve or thirteen. All of them were wearing matching ridiculous sweaters and grinning widely.

“Stiles,” John said prompting Stiles to look at him. “It’s not worth it. You can’t get too involved. Learning their names? Looking at their families? It’ll just make it harder for you in the long run.”

“Yeah,” Stiles said looking back at the picture and feeling that hollow place inside him twist painfully. Glancing at the driver’s license again he made a mental note of the address before flipping the wallet closed and returning it to Richard’s pocket. He picked Richard’s left hand up running a gloved thumb along the tattooed band around Richard’s ring finger as John began tying the plastic around his legs. Stiles wondered what kind of job Richard did and if it had anything to do with why he chose a tattoo in place of a wedding band, or if it was simply a preference to not wear a physical ring.

John pulled Richard’s hand from Stiles’ tucking it within the plastic and working a second piece of string around the torso. He motioned to two more pieces lying beside him on the floor. “Tie around the throat and above the head,” he said.

Nodding Stiles pulled the plastic over enough to cover Richard’s face sliding one piece of string beneath his neck and tying it off with fumbling fingers. He felt a bit numb, detached in a strange way that left him feeling as if he was watching someone else’s hands tie a knot around a dead guy’s head. The last piece was even harder, the strands slipping through his fingers four times before he managed to get a tight knot.

He sat back on his heels, watching blankly as John hefted the man onto his shoulder before striding from the room like he wasn’t just carrying a dead body across the parking lot. Stomach protesting once more Stiles inched over to the window to track John as he quickly crossed the lot and deposited Richard in the trunk of the Impala. He rummaged around a moment then emerged with a small brush and dustpan, which he thrust at Stiles as soon as he was back in the room.

“Sweep up what you can of the salt,” he instructed, “then go get in the truck with Bobby.”

Stiles made quick work of the salt, sweeping up most of it and scattering the rest well enough that a ring was no longer recognizable. Once finished he dumped it and the accompanying dirt into the trash shaking the clinging grains from the brush bristles. John ushered Stiles out of the room ahead of him, taking the dustpan back from slack fingers and giving Stiles a nudge towards Bobby’s truck at the other end of the lot.

Stiles crossed the lot, glancing towards the office where Dean was leaned against the counter and talking animatedly with the manager as he walked gravel crunching beneath his feet. He hauled himself into the passenger seat of Bobby’s truck still feeling like half a person. Bobby eyed him briefly but didn’t say anything, just readjusted his cap and glanced in the rearview mirror. Stiles looked in his own blinking slightly at his reflection before focusing on Dean as he left the office and climbed in the Impala with John.

Bobby turned the key, the truck rumbling to life beneath them and put it in gear. The truck shifted roughly, rolling back as Bobby reversed and jerking forward once he shifted to first. Each shift between gears caused the truck to shiver a bit and lurch, something that hadn’t bothered Stiles on the way down but was making him feel nauseous now. He wrapped his hand around the door handle, abruptly realizing he was still wearing the latex gloves and hurriedly pulling them off and stuffing them out of sight.

The silence in the truck was suffocating, filled only by the sound of the engine and the taunting laughter in Stiles’ memory. It pressed in on all sides, as oppressive as the heat roiling outside. Sweat slipped down the back of Stiles’ neck and pooled in the small of his back sticking the fabric of his thin t-shirt to his skin unpleasantly beneath his hoodie. The weak attempt at cool air the truck was pushing out of its vents did little to help delivering only the feeblest of breezes and the faint odor of mildew. Regardless of the heat, Stiles felt oddly chilled stifling down a series of small shivers. Absurdly, he thought of Richard in the trunk of the black car behind them and wondered how much hotter it was in there.

“My dad might never wake up,” Stiles said unsure really where the sudden and plaguing thought even came from and only able to picture Richard and his family no matter how hard he tried to banish the image.

Bobby seemed similarly thrown, turning his head for the briefest of moments to look at Stiles. “What?”

“My dad,” Stiles repeated licking his lips and tasting salt. “He’s in a coma, and if I die out here he might never wake up.” He paused, breathing in deliberately then exhaling just as slow. “If I die out here none of them will know.”

Bobby cleared his throat grumbling something under he breath before saying, “Stiles, it’s best not to think like that.”

“Like what? Realistically?” He scoffed and gave a slight laugh. “You know, it’s funny. I’ve been throwing myself in danger for, God, _years_ , and I’ve always been so concerned about everyone but myself. And even now it’s, I don’t care if I die for me,” he said staring studiously ahead as Bobby went still beside him. “I don't. Sometimes I think all I’d feel is relieved, but I’m so damn worried about them and how they’d feel.”

“I imagine they’d feel pretty terrible,” Bobby said measuredly.

Stiles looked at him, pulling in another careful breath around the knot in his chest. “Do you have any family?”

“I like to think of Sam and Dean as part of my family,” Bobby said after a moment tapping his thumb thoughtfully against the steering wheel. “And by extension I suppose John’s in there too. But, if you’re talkin’ blood, then no, I don’t.”

“I don’t have anyone other than my dad, not by blood,” Stiles said. “But Scott, he’s more a brother to me than anything, and the others…”

“So why’d you leave then?” Bobby asked when Stiles trailed off and remained quiet. “Don’t you think running off like this has worried them just as much?”

“Maybe,” Stiles admitted leaning his head against the window, the warm glass soothing against his cool skin. He repeated Richard's name and address in his mind, committing to memory as he watched the town slip by outside. “But I was more worried about what would happen if I stayed.”

* * *

“Was that really necessary?” Dean asked as soon as he and Dad tugged their respective doors shut. Dad glanced over at him as he pulled out from the motel parking lot following after Bobby at a reasonable pace.

“Did you get the security tape for the parking lot?”

Dean rolled his eyes, drumming his fingers along the door. “No need. Marcus said the tapes don’t record. He’s just supposed to monitor them.”

Dad nodded once. “Good.”

“Was that necessary?” Dean repeated, clenching his jaw when his father ignored the question flicking his gaze first to Dean then to the mirror to check for cars before shifting lanes. “ _Dad_.”

Dad frowned shooting Dean a warning look. “Don’t use that tone with me, son.”

“Then answer my question,” Dean said crossing a line he hadn't dared to since Sam left. “Did you really need to push Stiles into doing that?”

“Doing what exactly?” Dad replied looking over sharply. “Cleaning up after a hunt? Yeah, I needed to do that. He needs to learn what hunting entails. All of it.”

Dean scoffed, slouching in his seat and turning to glare out the window, something like unease and resentment broiling low in his gut. “You never would have made me or Sam do it,” he muttered. “Not like that. He wasn’t prepared.”

Dad exhaled sharply through his nose and eased the Impala around a sharp turn. The evening sunlight slanted through the windshield causing both hunters had to squint their eyes at the brightness. “You can’t be prepared for everything,” he said gruffly. “And he’s not going to be with us forever, Dean. Don’t forget that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next update **October 1st** , and you can follow me on [tumblr](http://little-red-and-his-wolves.tumblr.com).


	9. Chapter Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A devil's come down to Georgia, and John is intent on tracking it down. Stiles wants nothing to do with a possible demon hunt, but refusing to go would raise too many questions so he finds himself working alongside the others to track down the last creature he wants to ever encounter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's still the ninth so I'm gonna count this as a win.

**This Burden Came To Me**

Watching John and Dean callously clean and dispose of a body in the woods somehow ranked up there as one of the most disturbing things he’d ever seen. Given that his mind housed memories of straight up murdering a few different people part of Stiles thought he should be concerned that simply watching Dean douse Richard in lighter fluid before dropping a match unsettled him so much. Then again, Stiles thought, every body they’d burned up to this point had been deceased quite a bit longer.

Stiles held back from the others, not offering to participate and thankful John didn't so much as glance in his direction to ask him. Dean didn’t either, and Stiles wasn’t sure how he felt about that. Part of him didn’t think he really _wanted_ Dean to look at him. Another thought he might feel a little less like he was drowning if Dean did.

The smell was the worst part, lingering heavily in the clearing and churning Stiles stomach. Burning fresh corpse smelled quite a bit different than burning advanced decomposed corpse.

“ _Stiles_.”

Stiles blinked dragging his gaze away from the dancing flames consuming a man’s face. Bobby was standing next to him with one hand outstretched but not quite touching Stiles’ arm, almost like he’d thought better of any contact. Stiles licked his lips, oddly dried and chapped, and swallowed. He pulled in a careful breath, skin tingling with pin points of heat and sweat slicking down his back.

“Stiles?” Bobby repeated and this time he did touch Stiles, a light hand to his arm with just enough pressure to draw his attention. Stiles stared at Bobby’s hand for a moment becoming aware of a full body shudder running through him that was no doubt clearly obvious to the older hunter. “You look like you’re about to pass out, boy,” Bobby said features scrunched up in concern. “Maybe you should sit down.”

Stiles shook his head. “I’m fine,” he said though it came out as more of a rasp.

Shaking his head, though, made him all the more aware of the low throbbing at the base of his skull. He blinked, smoke from the fire stinging his eyes. Swiping his sleeve over his face Stiles turned away, staring off through the shadowed trees and relishing in the coolness of the air facing this direction. He breathed out carefully, dragging his hands over his face and smelling something faintly foul.

The trees around them were quiet, they were far enough into the woods that the road was no longer visible and just barely audible. If they left Richard here and told no one it was unlikely he’d be found for quite some time. The wolves might get to him first. The coyotes. Vultures.

Creatures of the more preternatural persuasions.

It was entirely possible that Richard would never be found. That his remains would be picked apart and strewn across the forest. If John and the others didn’t phone in the anonymous tip Richard would be a missing person for years potentially. Even if they did Richard would be a cold case. An unsolved file like all those ones his dad had gone through right before they found Malia.

Stiles took a careful breath, pulling in cool air that was thick with the stench of burning flesh that settled heavy in the back of his throat. He gagged, stomach spasming as he leaned forward bracing his hands on his knees to avoid falling over.

It was a close thing but he didn’t puke. He kind of wished he did though. Thought it might settle his rolling stomach. He heaved again, drawing up nothing more than a mouthful of awful tasting bile that he spit out before swiping the back of his hand across his mouth.

A hand landed on his shoulder, another pressing on his back. “Kid, just go wait in the car.”

“I'm gonna take a walk,” Stiles said instead. Just the idea of sitting in a closed space right now made the jittery anxious feeling in his chest surge forward. He shrugged Bobby’s hand off his back stalking away without looking behind him, heading back towards the road and welcoming the fresher air as he moved.

He didn’t stop walking until he hit the road, took one look at the car and truck parked by the side of the road and turned left instead. After twenty minutes of walking the roadhouse he remembered just outside of town came into view, hazy lights nothing more than a flicker in the distance and growing stronger with every step he took.

It was hot even this late at night, sweat sliding down Stiles’ neck and making the thin material of his t-shirt stick uncomfortably to his lower back beneath the hoodie. He was still to chilled on the inside to contemplate taking off. He pulled the sleeves down over his hands, breathing hot air on his fingers as he crossed the parking lot illuminated by the flickering and half-working neon sign over the doorway.

A few people looked up as he eased the door to the roadhouse open and stepped inside. After a moment they returned to their drinks, the novelty of a newcomer apparently not holding enough of a draw. Stiles scanned the room, noting the individual patrons before settling on the bartender behind the counter; a clean-shaven tall man with broad shoulders and an army buzzcut. Stiles could hear his rumbling voice from all the way across the establishment along with a booming laugh as he served up a couple of drinks.

Music thrummed through the air, a slight vibration running through the floorboards beneath Stiles’ feet as he crossed the room, weaving through the tables to approach the bar.

“Hey,” Stiles said clearing his throat and awkwardly leaning against the counter. He waited for the bartender to look at him before asking, “You got a phone I can use?”

The bartender shrugged tossing the towel over his shoulder and bracing his hands against the bar. “Need to make a call, kiddo?”

“I asked for a phone,” Stiles said furrowing his brow. “What do you think?”

“I think you’re a bit of a smartass,” the bartender observed unperturbed by the scathing tone of Stiles’ voice. “And too young to be in a bar.”

Stiles scoffed scrubbing a sleeve over his face once again and raking a hand through his sweat damp hair. “Look, I just need a phone, okay? So do you have one or not?”

The bartender sighed, eyes sweeping over Stiles critically before nodding towards the opposite end of the bar. “Phone’s down there.”

“Thanks,” Stiles said with limited amounts of sarcasm as he moved down to the phone. He fished it out from between boxes of straws and napkins staring at it for a long moment. “Uh, hey,” he called a bit sheepishly ignoring the amused look one of the patrons at the bar sent him. “You got a phonebook by any chance?”

The bartender tossed the rag to the counter rolling his eyes quite obviously even as he disappeared into the backroom. He came back out soon after tossing a phonebook on the counter before Stiles with a heavy smack.

“Thanks,” Stiles said again pulling it towards him and immediately flipping to the G section, sliding his finger down along the pages until he found the Gardners. There were quite a few of them and several by the name Richard. Stiles found the one with the familiar address tracing his finger over to the corresponding phone number and dialing it in quickly. He drummed his fingers against the counter turning away slightly when the bartender continued to glance at him frequently.

The phone rang several times, echoing in Stiles’ ear and each successive ring twisting the knot of anxiety in his chest tighter and tighter. On the fifth ring a woman answered.

“Hello?”

“Hi,” Stiles said swallowing roughly around the lump in his throat. “Uh, is this…I’m, I’m looking for the family of Richard.”

“This is his daughter,” the woman, girl Stiles reminded himself remembering the photograph, replied. “Um, hold on.”

The was a slight pause, the sound of a the phone being transferred, then, “This is Richard’s husband, Paul. Who is this?”

Stiles swallowed again, throat constricting so far he felt like he was trying to breathe through a straw. He leaned his head against the wall and tried to take a calming breath.

“Hello?” Paul sounded worried. Voice strained. Stiles wondered if he knew anything was really wrong yet. “What is this regarding?”

So many words were clamoring to escape. Explanations about demons, useless platitudes of comfort and apology, lies that would, at least for the briefest of moments, make everything okay. But none of them were the right thing to say. None of them were even possible.

“Who is this?” Paul demanded. “Have you seen my husband?”

Stiles clenched his hand around the phone, squeezing his eyes shut. “I’m sorry,” he said regretting every syllable. “I’m just…it was a mistake to call.”

He hung up halfway through Paul’s protest, setting the phone down heavily on the counter and slamming the heel of his hand into the wall. The sting of the contact helped settle him a bit, the low throb taking up residence easing the vice grip in his chest. The barman raised an eyebrow asking blandly, “Get ahold of whoever you needed?”

Stiles shook his head pushing away from the bar. “Not exactly,” he said. He rubbed at his eyes, fingers digging in hard enough to hurt. He dropped his hand with a sigh pushing the phonebook across the counter and freezing when the man on the other side grabbed his wrist.

“You okay, kid?” the bartender asked. “If you’re in some sort of trouble,” he said glancing pointedly at his hand and loosening his grip on Stiles’ wrist. “I know some people who can help.”

“I'm fine,” Stiles said pulling his arm free and holding it close to his chest as he took a few steps away. “Thanks for your concern, but, really, I don’t need it.”

* * *

Dean swiped a hand over his forehead grimacing at the sweat gathered there and the soot he could feel himself leaving behind. He shrugged his shoulder up, tugging on his shirtsleeve to repeat the motion this time with more success. Standing next to a burning body in this kind of heat was the worst for trying to not pass out from heatstroke. At least the hottest of the fire had burned down by now, the flames flickering lower and lower until the corpse was just smoldering among the damp leaves.

Dad crouched low, peering intently over the body before giving a sharp nod. Dean reacted immediately helping his father and Bobby gather up everything they’d brought into the woods. He slung the bag over his shoulder following after Dad and Bobby as they walked back to the cars and keeping an eye out for Stiles. He expected to see the other boy leaning at against the Impala or perhaps in the bed of Bobby’s truck but Stiles wasn’t anywhere in the vicinity.

“Where’s Stiles?” he asked dropping his bag into the trunk and scanning the treeline.

“Kid said he was gonna take a walk,” Bobby said scanning the surrounding himself. “Figured he’d be waiting by the cars.”

Dad sighed. “Call him,” he ordered pointing at Dean. “Getting tired of having to run after him all the time.”

Dean pulled his phone from his pocket thumbing down to Stiles’ name on his contacts and hitting send. He held it to his ear turning to stare back down the road towards town as he listened to it ring. Stiles picked up on the third.

 _“I’m on my way back,”_ he said without preamble.

Dean pinched the bridge of his nose. “Where the hell are you?”

 _“Taking a walk. Needed to clear my head.”_ He sounded upset still, voice husky and thick like he’d been crying.

“Which way?” Dean asked. “We’ll come pick you up.”

“ _Don’t bother_ ,” Stiles said with an audible sniff. “ _I’m almost back. Five minutes top_.”

He hung up before Dean could respond. Dean locked his phone and tapped it against his forehead a few times with another sigh before turning back to the two older hunters. Dad raised a brow expectantly in question.

“He’s on his way,” Dean said and Dad scowled digging in his pockets to toss the Impala’s keys to Dean.

“Go and pick him up,” he said. “Bobby and I will go get rooms and make the call.”

Dean caught the keys easily nodding his understanding and sliding behind the wheel of the Impala, turning the key in her ignition and pulling back out on the road headed to town. He came across Stiles a few minutes later walking along the edge of the road almost fading into the dark shadows of the forest. Driving by at first he made a U-turn and pulled up alongside him rolling down the window and peering out.

“You’re way too pretty to be out here on your own, you know,” he said aiming for teasing and falling a little short.

Stiles halted staring silently at Dean a long moment before pulling the door open and sliding in. Dean waited until he tugged the door shut then pulled back onto the road fully.

“You smell,” Stiles said eventually.

Dean furrowed his brows noting Stiles’ sweat damp hair and taking a experimental sniff of the car. Stiles wasn’t wrong; the two of them did smell a little ripe.

“Well, you’re no blooming flower yourself,” he said tapping his fingers along the wheel and flipping the high-beams off as an oncoming car approached. “So, lay off with the hurtful words there.”

“No,” Stiles said. “You smell like smoke.”

Dean flicked his gaze over to him briefly. “Yeah, well, that tends to happen when you stand in smoke.”

“You burned his body,” Stiles continued like he hadn’t even heard what Dean said, voice cracking over the words and accusing as he shook his head and propped his elbow on the door, refusing to even look in Dean’s direction. “You took his body into the woods and burned it.”

“He was possessed,” Dean snapped. “He was possessed and he died. A salt and burn is standard procedure. It’s what we’d do for any hunter.”

“He wasn’t a hunter!” Stiles shouted. “He wasn’t, wasn’t…” he trailed off, throat working silently for a moment before asking quietly, “It never gets any easier does it?”

Dean sighed, licked his lips as he glanced over at Stiles for the briefest of moments. “I want to say it does,” he said looking back to the road. “I think it does. Eventually, you kind of get used to it. It’ll suck, every time, but you get…numb to it.”

Stiles stared at him, brows drawn and eyes hurt. “Maybe we shouldn’t,” he said after a moment turning to lean against the window. “Maybe it should hurt and we should suffer because it’s our fault.”

* * *

“The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.”

Stiles pulled in a deep breath, the crisp air of the cemetery tingling as it filled his lungs and lending to the clear projection of the priest’s sermon across the grounds, the words rolling over Stiles with a strange sense of weight. He stood tall regardless, hands clasped before him and resisting the urge to fidget in the itchy suit he was wearing. A hand landed on his shoulder squeezing reassuringly and Stiles turned to offer his father a faint smile of gratitude.

“He maketh me to lie down in green pastures; he leadest me beside the still waters.”

Dad nodded, returning a small smile of his own, and Stiles turned back to watch the casket lower into the ground, glossy black contrasting starkly with the pure white of the roses being dropped atop it. The priest turned a page in his book, more for show than anything Stiles thought since he probably knew the psalm by memory at this point.

“He restoreth my soul; he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake.”

Stiles stepped forward, dropping his own flower onto the casket and watching it fall slowly through the distance. The woman across from him dropped her rose and moved aside. Behind her a barefoot Allison stared at him, the contrast between her pale skin and simple black slip and dark hair almost as stark as the coffin and roses.

“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadows of death, I will fear no evil.”

Stiles swallowed roughly as Allison lifted one slender hand and pressed a finger to her lips. Her wet hair draped over her shoulders, small droplets of water slipping down her arms. She held her hand to her lips for a moment longer before lowering it and turning to slip through the small crowd.

“For thou art with me,” the priest read and someone nudged Stiles forward. He took a few steps, gaze trained on Allison as she drifted away. “Thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me.”

For a moment Stiles lost sight of her among the sea of black and he moved blindly forward to follow heedless of his father’s calls behind him. Someone fell into his shoulder knocking him a bit off balance and Stiles apologized absently barely noting the man’s face, gaze still searching for dark hair and pale skin.

“Thou prepares a table before me in the presence of mine enemies. Thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.”

He broke free of the crowd spotting Allison across the graveyard walking slowly yet steadily away from him. “Allison!” he called jogging after her. “Allison, wait!”

She disappeared into a small grove of trees, fading into the shadows

“Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life,” the priest’s words were faint now, barely discernible in the air. Stiles ducked under low hanging branches, the coolness of the shade washing over him as the final words of the priest faded away. “I will dwell in the house of the Lord. Forever.”

“Allison?” Stiles said taking tentative steps through the crunchy leaves and pine needles that seemed to muffle the sounds of his footfalls. “Allison?”

The girl seemed to have disappeared, not even a hint of her presence in the grove. Stiles drifted forward, moving towards the center where a cluster of graves stood apart from the rest surrounding a small mausoleum. One headstone in particular stood out among the rest, its thick white marble base sloping up into the flowing folds of a dress adorning a classically beautiful woman holding a drawn bow. The top of the bow was broken off leaving behind a jagged edge that jutted skyward.

Stiles moved towards it, hand outstretched to brush the dirt and leaves from the base to read the name. As he kneeled the ground collapsed beneath him, thrusting him forward with a small shout of surprise. His hands landed in mud, sinking quickly as he tried to brace himself and pull back. The stench of it turned his stomach, like something rotten and partially decayed. Stiles gagged, shifting backwards and heart hammering when he felt his feet sink into the same mud as his hands all solid ground having disappeared from under him.

He cried out again as he tried to free himself, grasping out desperately for the grass around the hole but it just tore free in his hands. The statue stared down at him, expression solemn as Stiles sank, sunlight streaming in behind her.

Stiles twisted, clawing desperately at the edges of the grave, ground simply crumbling beneath his fingers. He finally got a solid hold and succeeded in dragging himself up just a few precious inches, enough to see over the edge

Stiles screamed, the stench of rot filling his nose and hands clawing over his skin as the mud closed in over his head. And all the while, Allison stared.

* * *

Stiles jerked awake with a bit off cry hand scrabbling over his face and arms to wipe away nonexistent mud. The air of the motel room was stuffy, hot and humid as it filled Stiles’ lungs, and smelled faintly of mothballs and bleach.

The bed dipped beside him and a hand ghosted over his shoulder disappearing just as quickly when Stiles yanked himself away almost toppling off the edge of the bed in the process.

“Stiles,” Dean whispered, face shadowed and voice hoarse in the hazy darkness of the room with the only light filtering in through the curtains from the lone street lamp outside. “Hey, it’s okay.”

Stiles shook his head surprised when the breath he tried to take caught, chest seizing so hard it hurt before even the smallest bit of air seemed to make it through. He leaned forward, pressing his face into his knees and wrapping his arms around his legs in an attempt to alleviate some of the pressure. Dean shifted towards him again and Stiles leaned away, stiffening his shoulders and hoping Dean would get the message.

The hunter drew back, bed shaking a bit beneath him as he did so and then there was a soft snick followed by a wash of light bathing the room. Stiles blinked against the light and felt his chest loosen the slightest amount as he took in the motel room around him. Dean glanced at him once but simply shuffled into the bathroom, nudging the door so it was mostly shut but still open just a sliver.

When he came back out a few minutes later Stiles’ heart had mostly settled into a steady rhythm, a solid thump, thump, thump in his chest. Dean wordlessly handed him a glass of water sitting down next to Stiles without any actual contact.

“Tell me about it,” he said and Stiles shook his head. “It wasn’t a question, Stiles.”

“Back to prying, are you?” Stiles asked wryly.

“It’s not about prying,” Dean said swiping a hand over his mouth and bracing his elbows on his knees. “It’s about you not staying stuck up in your head.”

“So, what? I tell you about my nightmares and suddenly everything is okay?” Stiles said turning his head to rest against his knees but still look at Dean.

“No,” Dean said. “Maybe telling me won’t even help, but it’s better than sitting here in silence and it’s better than dealing with it alone.”

Stiles licked his lips, letting out a slow and easy breath and playing with the seam of his jogging pants as he deliberated. Dean didn’t say anymore, just brushed his hands over his hair a few times so it stuck up in nearly every imaginable direction.

“I was in a cemetery,” Stiles said eventually. “At a funeral. I don’t know whose it was. The priest was reciting that psalm. Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death—”

“I will fear no evil,” Dean finished quietly and Stiles closed his eyes.

“I will fear no evil,” he confirmed. “You know, they say the people in your dreams…they’re just your subconscious trying to tell you something. I will fear no evil. I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean because if there’s one thing I am, it’s afraid.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading and commenting! You're all amazing. 
> 
> I already know the next two weeks are going to be very busy for me. I'm going to try and have the last chapter up this weekend, but I also have a class assignment due that will, unfortunately, take priority. (I really want to take a vacation from being and adult but what you gonna do?) So, be on the look out the 15th or 16th, or, failing that, probably around the 26th. 
> 
> Until then, cheers.


	10. Chapter Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A devil's come down to Georgia, and John is intent on tracking it down. Stiles wants nothing to do with a possible demon hunt, but refusing to go would raise too many questions so he finds himself working alongside the others to track down the last creature he wants to ever encounter.

**This Burden Came To Me**

He found Stiles outside on the porch in spite of the early hour. If John was honest he wasn’t sure the boy had ever gone to sleep the night before even though they had gotten in rather late. The sun hadn’t even risen yet, just the faintest hints of pink peeking over the trees and an early morning fog still hanging over the junkyard. Stiles was sitting balanced on the rickety old banister, shoulders hunched beneath his heavy sweatshirt, hood drawn up, and hands buried in the pockets. Given the kid’s propensity for clumsiness John would be concerned about him taking a nosedive into the hard packed earth beneath if he didn’t have his feet hooked around two of the few remaining posts. On second thought maybe his current position was actually more dangerous.

John cleared his throat and eased the door open slowly not wanting to really startle the kid and more than aware of Stiles’ propensity to get lost in thought whenever he wasn’t actively focusing on anything other than whatever occupied his mind when alone. Surprisingly, however, Stiles didn’t so much as shift even though his shoulders tensed telegraphing clearly that he was aware of John’s presence.

“We need to talk,” John said leaning against the nearest post and crossing his arms as he considered Stiles’ profile carefully. The boy ignored him, staring off towards the rising sun with a focused sort of intensity that John usually saw directed at the laptop screen rather than blankly into the distance.

“I can’t even tell you how much I don’t like conversations that start with _we need to talk_ ,” Stiles said after a moment squinting a bit as the first direct rays of sunlight broke over the top of the trees.

John huffed and shifted against the post. “Here’s the deal, Stiles. You and I both know I have some questions about what happened in Georgia.”

“Any chance we can just follow a what happened in Georgia stays in Georgia policy?” Stiles asked before sighing like he already knew the answer.

“No,” John said bluntly. “Now, do you want to just give me the general overview or should I ask you specific questions?”

Stiles sighed again giving John a side-long glance that reminded John of the look his dog would give him when he was a child, that suspicious and calculating look that suggested Stiles thought John was about to do something that would harm his person.

“Specific questions then?” John said when Stiles continued to just give him that side-eye glare. “Tell me how you got the salt around the demon in the motel room.”

“Couldn’t start with anything easier?” Stiles asked rocking back on the banister far enough that John almost moved forward incase he managed to topple backwards like an idiot. “Look, I already told you.”

“I don’t appreciate being lied to.”

“It's not a lie,” Stiles said and if John didn’t know any better he would believe the kid. “It was quite a feat of speed. I didn’t use to be able to it that fast. Took a lot of practice.”

“The demon called you an aberration, said you were like it. What do you think it meant by that?” John asked.

Something indecipherable flickered over Stiles’ face, something haunted and dark that shook John’s soul. “How should I know? Demon’s are messed up creatures.”

“I think it meant you’ve been possessed before,” John said dryly theory confirmed when Stiles paled to the point of looking like a ghost and hunched his shoulders even more. “The thing you and your friends let out by messing around with shit you shouldn’t have? It was a demon, wasn’t it?”

“John, it’s really the last thing I want to talk about,” Stiles said after a moment.

“See, the problem here, Stiles, is that I don’t care.” John paused letting the words sink in for a moment; Stiles stared at the ground, growing somehow stiller aside from shallow breaths as he waited. “I’ve let a lot of things go with you. A lot of unanswered questions, a lot of unexplained happenings. I won’t do it any more, so you either start talking or Dean and I are going to be leaving here without you.”

Stiles glanced at him briefly before turning back to the rising sun seemingly unperturbed by John’s ultimatum. “You’ve regressed back to threatening me again? Awesome. Here’s the problem though, I don’t care.”

“A demonic possession can have a lot repercussions,” John said instead of replying watching Stiles carefully for his reaction. If John was right what he said next would prompt some sort of response. “Personality shifts, depression, heightened aggression, psychosis, in rare cases the host might experience latent inclinations towards more preternatural abilities. I’m wondering which of those you’ve experienced. Tell me, your stay in that mental hospital, was it before or after you were possessed?”

Abruptly Stiles kicked his feet free from the supporting spokes and dropped to the ground, turning to glare at John with narrowed eyes. “Maybe I was possessed,” he said hands clenched around the banister and words harsh. “And maybe it did fuck me up a bit, but that’s no reason for you to go prying around in shit that doesn’t concern you.”

“You’re right,” John agreed shifting forward and noting how Stiles let go of the banister and actually took a step back. “It did fuck you up. Of course it did. I want to know how fucked up you are.”

“Just let it go,” Stiles said taking another step away.

“I think that demon left something in you,” John said ignoring Stiles’ request and the warning undertone. Something in the back of his mind echoed Stiles’ words, an internal alarm of danger that didn’t make sense with the nearly frightened look on the boy’s face before him. A small part of him told him to stop, but he ignored it as well pushing that last little bit for answers. “I think you’re one of those rare people who even though they survived never really get rid of that evil thing inside them.”

“Drop it, John,” Stiles snarled and there was something charged in the air, something that raised the hair on John’s arms and the back of his neck, something that made the shadow of threat at the edge of his mind wash fully over him. The muscles along Stiles’ jaw jumped, his shoulders tense and eyes flashing dangerously, almost seeming to flare with a brilliant glow.

John leaned against the railing, a wave of dizziness washing over him. He shook his head attempting to clear the cobwebs making everything seem far off and distant. In the next instant everything flooded back with sudden clarity from the rough sensation of the wood beneath his hands and the bright sunlight bathing the area to the chirping birds around the junkyard and the crisp chill of early morning air.

Stiles was standing below him, staring up with wide eyes and a subtly horrified expression that knocked some long buried fatherly instinct loose enough for John to say inquiringly, “Stiles?”

“Uh,” Stiles said rounding the porch slowly and all but creeping up the steps. “I’m fine. Just…going to lay down.”

“That’s probably a good idea,” John said concerned as Stiles had to reach out for the wall when he stumbled a bit coming up the stairs. “You should get some rest.”

Stiles just nodded jerkily and slipped inside the house keeping one hand running along the door and walls for support before disappearing from John’s view. He could hear him stumbling up the stairs inside though, heavy steps and a few muffled thumps not lending much credence to his assertion of being fine. Hopefully, all the kid needed was a few good hours of sleep.

* * *

Stiles caught himself on the stairs again when he missed a step and cracked his knee painfully against the unforgiving wood. He hauled himself up by the railing, staggering a few more steps and relieved when he finally crested the top. God, he was so stupid. What had he been thinking? Losing control like that, and all because John had been prodding at age-old hurts.

It wasn’t like the hunter had necessarily been wrong. Especially since Stiles just proved himself incapable of not doing the exact thing he’d vowed to never do again. It tore at something in his chest, a tightly repressed and often avoided ache.

Stupid. That’s what it was. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

And John of all people. Like he wouldn’t notice. Stiles would be lucky if all he got now was kicked to the curb. Put down was a more likely option.

He knocked into the wall when he lost his balance again, blinking quickly like it would keep the encroaching darkness from swallowing him whole. Running his hand along the wall he found the doorknob and twisted it, all but falling into the room with a loud clatter when it swung open too easily.

Dean jerked up on his bed, blinking sleepily and hair mused from where he’d been buried under the pillows. He frowned, blinking a few more times and apparently confused by whatever he was inferring from the way Stiles was basically clutching at the door to stay standing.

“Whoa,” he said hoarsely, “you okay, dude?”

“Fine,” Stiles gasped clenching his hand around the doorknob and blinking himself to try and force back the creeping shadows greying out the edges of his vision. He pulled in a shallow breath wishing he could tell if the fluttering of his heart was something of real concern or just from the exertion of dragging himself upstairs. “Just need to lay down.”

He made to straighten up, let go of the door and took one unsteady step towards the bed. Then the floor was lurching out from beneath his feet, the carpet seeming to rush up and meet his face, and in the next second he was pressed against something solid but warm.

“Shit, Stiles, what the hell,” Dean muttered, voice sounding far away even if Stiles was vaguely aware of the warm puff of air near his ear.

He tried to disentangle himself, limbs oddly heavy and unresponsive as he shifted against Dean in a futile attempt to stand on his own. The floor dipped once again, Stiles falling against Dean even more and too tired to do anything but go with it. He pressed his face into Dean’s shoulder, inhaling sharply and smelling the crisp scent of cheap soap and hair gel along with the coppery smell of blood.

“Sorry,” he murmured as Dean shouted for Bobby and John distantly aware he was probably smearing blood all over Dean’s shirt. “I didn’t…I didn’t mean to.”

“It’s fine. Don’t worry about it. I don’t even like this shirt,” Dean said and something warm pressed gently against the side of Stiles’ face. He didn’t remember closing his eyes and leaned into the touch gratefully as a rough shiver shuddered through him. “Jesus, you’re freezing. Hey, open your eyes.”

Stiles blinked trying to pull Dean’s face in focus even as the room seemed to fluctuate around the hunter, fading in an out of blackness. He tried to keep his head up, surprised to find himself leaning heavily and staring up at the ceiling that seemed so very far away.

“Here, sit down,” Dean said easing Stiles to the floor slowly and helping him lean back against the bed. Sitting down did help the rolling of the floor beneath him, helped him feel a bit more steady, but did nothing to stop the exhaustion flooding through him and dragging him under.

“Stiles, hey, stay awake, okay? I don’t know what’s going on, but I need you to try and stay awake,” Dean instructed sounding far away, warm hands cradling Stiles’ head and thumbs pressed gently along his cheekbones. “Dad! Get up here!”

“I’m okay,” Stiles tried to assure him, probably a lost cause given the nosebleed and sudden onset of lethargy, but at least he tried. “Really. Just need…to sleep.”

“What?” Dean asked suddenly very close again. “No. Stiles, no. Stay awake. Keep your eyes open. Stiles!”

* * *

The first thing Stiles was aware of was warmth. He was utterly and completely warm for once. Almost too warm, but Stiles appreciated it anyway since he’d felt like he was freezing even in the Georgia heat ever since he’d met the demon. He stirred slowly just now realizing the comforting weight draped over him, blankets upon blankets drawn up around his shoulders. It reminded him of the weighted blanket he’d had as a child, the one his mother had come home with one day and wrapped around Stiles’ shoulders with a whispered affirmation of love and a kiss to his cheek. He wondered, briefly, what had become of that blanket. He remembered sitting in a small closet with it tucked close around him after his mother died, but eventually he’d stopped using it and somewhere along the line he’d lost track of it. He wondered if his father had kept it, tucked safely away in a box somewhere in the attic or closet. Stiles inhaled sharply almost able to convince himself the smell of Bobby’s laundry detergent approximated the scent of lavender and chamomile.

Soft footfalls announced the arrival of someone, Dean by the pace and force, and Stiles stirred again trying to decide if he felt up to moving. In spite of no doubt having slept longer than he had in months and a dreamless sleep at that, Stiles still felt a bone deep exhaustion and overall weakness that left his movements shaky and somewhat uncoordinated. In the end he picked his head up far enough to glance over his shoulder and confirm that it was indeed Dean who’d entered the room.

Dean’s pace picked up and he was across the room in seconds pressing a hand to Stiles’ forehead and keeping it there even as Stiles swatted at him weakly. “What are you doing?”

“Checking to see if you’re still frozen,” Dean said apparently satisfied because he finally drew his hand back though he didn’t move off the bed. “How are you feeling?”

“Tired,” Stiles answered honestly pushing himself up to sit because having Dean sitting over him was oddly disconcerting.

Dean nodded like he’d been expecting that answer. “There’s a clinic in town. I can take you in later—”

“Clinic?” Stiles repeated furrowing his brows in confusion.

“For a check up,” Dean said peering at Stiles like he was a particular kind of stupid. “Figure out why you collapsed like that.”

“Oh,” Stiles said. “Right, um, that’s really not necessary. I'm fine.”

“What are you talking about?” Dean said eyes narrowed slightly. “Of course it’s necessary. You passed out after bleeding all over my shirt. We’re getting you looked at.”

“No, we’re not,” Stiles said, “because I am fine.”

“Stiles, you’re not fine,” Dean snapped. He looked vaguely guilty for a moment but continued nonetheless. “People who are _fine_ don’t pass out and go into a mini coma for sixteen hours.”

“Dean—”

“Bobby was monitoring your vitals,” Dean said. “We almost took you to a hospital.”

“Dean, I’m fine, really,” Stiles repeated raising one hand to rub at his forehead in hopes of easing the building headache he could feel starting just behind his eyes. “This isn’t the first time this has happened.”

The admission brought Dean up short, had him shutting his mouth with an audible click before shaking his head and saying, “This has happened before? And you don’t think that’s cause for even more concern?”

“No, it’s not,” Stiles huffed, taking a calming breath. “There are triggers. It doesn’t happen often, but it has happened before.”

Dean narrowed his eyes further. “What kind of triggers?”

“Like not sleeping and stress from a demon job,” Stiles bit out shifting beneath the blankets and fighting the urge to rake his nails up and down his arms or physically kick Dean off the bed just to gain some distance. “Look, I’m not the healthiest person when it comes to taking care of myself. It’s not a fucking newsflash. But I don’t need you to take care of me. I’m not your—”

“My what?” Dean asked bitterly. “My friend?”

“Responsibility,” Stiles finished.

Dean swallowed roughly glancing away and shoving up from the bed. “Never said you were,” he said not looking back to Stiles as he stalked from the room with a final, “I’ll let Bobby know you’re awake.”

Stiles stayed where he was, something heavy and unrecognizable caught up tight in his chest, cinching tighter and tighter around his throat as Dean thundered down the stairs and out the front door letting it slam closed behind him. Letting out a frustrated whine he fell back against the bed, rolling over and dragging the blankets over his head. The air beneath quickly became hot and stuffy, nearly unbearable to breathe but far better than actually facing the world beyond the covers. After all as long as he couldn’t see the world then he could convincingly pretend it didn’t exist. At least for a few moments.

Too soon he heard footsteps approaching again. Not Dean, the steps notably heavier than Dean’s usually were, and Stiles didn’t think it was John. His suspicious were confirmed a moment later when knuckles rapped lightly on the doorframe and Bobby said, “Stiles? You awake under there?”

“If I say no,” Stiles said, “will you leave me alone?”

Bobby huffed, footsteps thudding across the room, and then he was yanking the blankets away and frowning down at Stiles disapprovingly. “What are you? Eight?”

“Yes,” Stiles replied tugging the blankets from Bobby’s hands but not throwing them back over his head like part of him wanted.

Bobby sighed heavily again turning to drag the chair closer to the bed before settling into is and eyeing Stiles intently. “How are you feeling?”

“Really tired of being asked that question,” Stiles said. “Dean wants me to go to a clinic?”

Bobby hummed crossing his arms and scratching idly at his chin. “We’re understandably a little concerned.”

“Bobby, I’m fine, seriously.”

Bobby arched a single eyebrow clearly questioning that as Stiles burrowed deeper beneath the blankets and the warmth they provided. “You had a pretty bad nosebleed,” the hunter pointed out. “And you’ve been unconscious for nearly sixteen hours. Quite a feat considering I’ve never seen you sleep more than a few hours at a time.”

“I’ll tell you what I told Dean,” Stiles said. “It’s happened before. It’s not a big deal.”

Humming thoughtfully Bobby shifted in his chair one hand making an abortive move towards his cap before he seemed to think better of it. “I would think that repeated instances would make it kind of a big deal.”

“Well, you would think wrong then,” Stiles quipped before rolling his eyes at Bobby’s unimpressed expression and saying, “I’ve seen someone about it, okay? There really isn’t any cause for concern.”

“If you’re sure,” Bobby said after a moment, shifting forward to rest his elbows on his knees and regarding Stiles with something akin to concern.

“Nothing wrong aside from my poor self-care strategies. Nothin’ for Dean to get pissed about,” Stiles muttered half burying his face in the pillow.

Bobby snorted. “Dean’s not pissed. He’s worried.”

“Same thing.”

* * *

Dean was in the yard when Bobby got back from the store, half hidden beneath the hood of an old car that would probably never run again regardless of how much effort the boy put into it. Dean had obviously been trying for some time anyhow if the sheen of sweat and half soaked t-shirt from the hot summer sun was anything to go by. The Impala was notably still absent as well meaning John’s supposed day trip to Windom had stretched to two. Bobby wondered if the man had bothered to call Dean or if he’d simply show up in the not too distant future.

Upon closer examination Bobby could see the earbuds likely blasting music into Dean’s ears at far too loud a volume; kid would damage his sharp hearing if he kept that up. He also likely hadn’t talked with Stiles then if the music and harsh movements as he yanked what looked like a spark plug from the engine and promptly kicked at the bumper while letting out a string of expletives were anything to go by.

Leaving the boy to his own devices for now, Bobby made his way inside surprised to hear sounds of activity from the kitchen which could only be Stiles. He eased the door shut behind him but made sure to make enough noise so as to not startle Stiles. Pausing briefly at the odd picture that greeted him once he entered the kitchen, Bobby cleared his throat and set about normal activities.

“Glad to see you out of bed. Bit bored were you?” he remarked carefully not letting his surprise show at finding Stiles cleaning weapons at the kitchen table. He moved into the kitchen setting the bags of groceries he’d bought on the counter and beginning to put things away.

Aside from a slight hum Stiles didn’t make any response to Bobby’s observation. Bobby glanced over him and the table covered with dismantled weaponry; he could only hope Stiles was putting everything back together correctly or there would likely be some problems in the future. He let silence envelop the kitchen as he finished putting all the groceries in their place, working with a steady meticulousness that mirrored Stiles’ motions. Once finished Bobby pulled a beer from the fridge and joined Stiles at the table, twisting off the top and taking a refreshing pull before broaching the last subject he really wanted to talk about.

“The thing you and your friends let out in Beacon Hills, it was a demon wasn’t it?” Bobby asked quietly, twirling the beer lightly in his hands and watching the sunlight glint off the bottle. It wasn’t much of a question at this point. The panic attack after Ben and his general response to the hunt in Georgia had made it pretty clear. It frustrated Bobby a little that he hadn’t made the connection sooner, frustrated him that Stiles hadn’t spoken up, frustrated him that John hadn’t been more sensitive once they’d put the pieces together.

Stiles stiffened in his seat, hands faltering around the Taurus a little before picking the rhythm back up. He didn’t respond, didn’t so much as glance up at Bobby.

“That day you and your friends did whatever it is you did to save whomever you were trying to save,” Bobby said as if there was any chance Stiles didn’t know exactly what he was talking about. “You let out a demon.”

Stiles’ nostrils flared, breath catching and hands beginning to tremble almost unnoticeably. Bobby set his beer aside, reaching over slowly to slide the dismantled gun from Stiles’ hands and placing the pieces back on the tabletop. Stiles let him, made no move to reclaim the Taurus and simply hid his hands beneath the table giving Bobby a furtive glance.

“It possessed you,” Bobby continued, “and attacked your town. You have to understand that wasn’t your fault.”

Stiles looked up sharply, eyes narrowing as he shook his head. There was a fire of anger in his eyes, misplaced and misdirected. “I let it in,” he said.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Bobby repeated, meeting and holding Stiles’ gaze, willing him to believe it even if Bobby knew he couldn’t. Not right now, not yet.

“I didn’t close the door.”

Bobby frowned not quite knowing what Stiles meant but willing to say once more, “It wasn’t your fault.”

“I didn’t close the door,” Stiles said again, tone even but his eyes were hard. “I let him in. _I did that_. I don’t want to hear how it’s not my fault, Bobby. I’ve heard that enough.”

“Evidently that’s not true,” Bobby said and Stiles’ brows drew together in contestation. “Stiles, whatever you did that resulted in you getting possessed doesn’t make you responsible for the actions of the demon afterwards. You’re as much, if not more, of a victim as everyone else.”

“John thinks it does,” Stiles said. “Won’t say it to my face, but I’m not an idiot.”

“No,” Bobby agreed. “Right now that’d be John.”

A fleeting smile flashed across Stiles’ face that eased the knot of grief in Bobby’s chest. Stiles had been hurt, undoubtedly so. He was damaged, maybe even broken, but no where near a lost cause and Bobby had seen enough of those in his years on this Earth. Stiles could heal, Stiles _was_ healing. Even his short time with the Winchesters was proof of that. Just a month or so ago Stiles would have shut down from this sort of conversation, would have balked at answering these questions. The fact that he hadn’t now was a show of trust, a sign Bobby looked to as progress.

“Do you remember when I said I knew a woman who’d been possessed?” Bobby said and Stiles nodded hesitantly, the same curiosity he’d shown at the subject before flickering across his features. “That woman was my wife. She was possessed, she died, and that’s how I got introduced to the supernatural.”

Stiles blinked, mouth working soundlessly for a moment before he finally rasped out, “Shit, Bobby, I’m…I’m sorry.”

“I ain’t lookin’ for an apology, kid,” Bobby said reclaiming his beer and taking a sip. “I didn’t tell you so you’d feel sorry, and I didn’t tell you so you’d go tellin’ anyone else either.” He paused again leveling Stiles with a pointed look to make sure the boy was listening, really listening, to what he was saying. “I told you so you’d recognize that you ain’t that different from us. Me and John and Dean; every hunter there ever was. We all have our demons. Now, you don’t gotta share them all and no one can tell you the right way to deal with them, but at the end of the day you have to deal.”

* * *

“Do you believe in angels?”

Dean blinked dragging his gaze away from the stars he’d been staring at to look at Stiles standing a few feet away practically swimming in a coat that Dean distantly noted was one of Sam’s larger coats that had been left behind. “What?”

“Angels,” Stiles repeated taking several hesitant steps forward and lowering himself to sit next to Dean on the porch steps. “Do you believe them?”

“No,” the hunter said honestly after a brief second of consideration and wondering on why this was the subject Stiles decided to approach him with at nearly one o’clock in the morning. “I don’t.”

Stiles let out a soft breath. “Why not?”

Dean pursed his lips and shrugged. “I believe in what I can see,” he said, “and all I’ve seen is bad. Bad monsters, bad people, bad situations, just…bad. So, no, I don’t believe in angels or God because I refuse to believe that anything good would sit by and let this shit down here happen. If there were angels they should protect people, should have protected Ben, should have protected poor bastard we burned, should have protected _you_.”

“What if,” Stiles paused swallowing roughly, “what if they only protect people who don’t deserve it? What if Ben and Richard and I are just bad people and that’s why the demons could get in?”

Dean shook his head. “Nope. You’re not a bad person, you didn’t deserve to be possessed.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes,” Dean said. “I do.”

“Why are you so certain about that?” Stiles asked and he sounded genuinely confused. “You don’t know anything about me, you don’t know what I’ve done, you don’t know what I—”

“I don’t need to,” Dean said cutting him off. “And besides it doesn’t matter. No one deserves to be possessed.”

Stiles didn’t say anything in response to that, just pulled the cuffs of his coat over his hands and picked at a loose thread anxiously. He seemed okay thankfully, back to his usual self even if he still looked a little paler and more tired than typical. Dean would be the first to admit, though only to himself, that he had a tendency to overreact when it came to people he maybe sort of cared about, but a life where everyone was always potentially two steps from Death’s door didn’t do anyone favors in the department of taking chances. Having Stiles collapse out of the blue had been nothing short of terrifying and Dean wasn’t keen to do it again because the little bastard was too stubborn to find out if he needed help. Although, looking at him now anxiously fidgeting with his sleeves and bouncing his knee rapidly up and down, Dean figured giving him the cold shoulder for a day and a half probably wasn’t the most conducive path to getting him to change his mind on the matter. Dean sighed rubbing at his eyes and glancing at the stars like they would lend him some sort of strength before clearing his throat.

“When I was younger,” he started shifting a little so his shoulder was pressed against Stiles’ offering support without anything that might be taken as too overbearing, “my mom used to tuck me into bed, and then she’d say, ‘Remember, angels are watching over you.’ I don’t know when I stopped believing that.”

Stiles chuckled dragging his arm over his eyes before leaning his head back far enough Dean’s neck hurt in sympathy to stare up at the stars far above them. “My mom told me something similar,” he said.

Dean smiled. “Really? What’d yours say?”

“She’d tuck me in and say, ‘Now, remember, Stiles, angels are watching you.’”

Dean furrowed his brows. “That sounds vaguely ominous.”

“I think it was her way of making sure I behaved myself at night,” Stiles said leaning into Dean for the briefest of moments before drawing away again. “For years I actually believed an angel would tell on me if I so much as snuck out of bed.”

“And now?” Dean asked. “Do you believe in angels?”

After a long moment of silence Stiles replied, “I want to.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whenever I don't want to deal with John I send him to Minnesota just to get rid of him. Actually, I wanted to send him to Palo Alto and imply he was checking up on Sam but Palo Alto is like 26 hours from Bobby's and Windom is only 2 so Minnesota it is. 
> 
> And...that's a wrap for part, uh, eight. It is eight, right?
> 
> Anyway, thanks as always for reading and commenting! I hope to have part nine up soon but I'm not even going to try and pinpoint a date at this point. You can always come pester me on my [tumblr](http://little-red-and-his-wolves.tumblr.com).


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